JIM  HANDS 

RICHARD  WASHBLRN  CHILD 


•I 


THE    MACM1LLAN     COMPANY 


•7 


JIM  HANDS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


RATHER  INK 


JIM    HANDS 


BY 
RICHARD   WASHBURN    CHILD 


FRONTISPIECE  BY  J.  A.  WILLIAMS 


Neto  ||0rk 

THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1911 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTKIGHT,    1910, 

BY  THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  November,  1910.      Reprinted 
January,  1911. 


Norton  oB 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


JIM  HANDS 


JIM  HANDS 

CHAPTER   I 

OUTSIDE  the  cottage,  somewhere  behind  the  purple 
veil  of  evening,  sounded  the  voice  of  some  woman, 
softly  singing  as  if  to  one  unborn.  A  joyful  girl  had 
opened  sensitive  lips  to  a  snatch  of  a  crooning  Irish 
lullaby. 

Jim  Hands,  engaged  in  the  important  task  of  packing 
his  pipe,  stopped  to  raise  his  gray  head.  The  light  from 
the  western  sky,  still  lingering  in  the  room  like  some 
thing  the  day,  with  its  stir  and  toil,  had  left  behind, 
disclosed  the  strange,  faint  smile  upon  his  face. 

He  turned  his  rocking-chair  toward  the  window. 
"You  heard  her,"  he  said.  "There  are  sounds  that 
take  a  feller  back  -  He  stopped.  The  clock  on  the 
wall,  taking  advantage  of  the  moment  of  silence,  as 
serted  its  sense  of  duty  by  a  solemn  ticking.  The  fore 
man  of  the  upper  leather  room  spoke  again.  "It's 
a  mystery  -  Again  he  stopped,  and  bracing  against 
the  chair-arms  with  his  calloused  hands,  he  rose.  He 
went  to  the  window.  He  looked  down  at  the  town. 

"Come  here,"  he  said.  "Look  at  the  lights  in  them 
windows.  Them  lights  mean  people.  Do  you  know 

B  1 


2  JIM  HANDS 

that?  Look  at  that  town.  A  town  ain't  just  a  town. 
It's  got  a  soul.  The  girl's  voice  you  heard-  But 
ain't  people  interesting?  Look  at  that  town!" 

There  it  was,  winking  its  eyes  in  the  dusk.  To  it  a 
railroad  winds  up  the  valley  through  woods  that  are 
brightest  green  in  spring  and  brilliant  with  color  in  the 
fall.  Those  who  go  back  and  forth  on  the  trains  must 
notice  that  it  is  only  the  pines  that  are  eternally  black 
against  the  cold,  moonlit  sky  of  winter  and  against  the 
fire  of  the  summer  sunsets.  Across  a  snow-covered 
bridge  comes  the  railroad,  and  curves  through  the  fac 
tory  village  like  a  live  and  sinuous  creature  bound  for  the 
hazy  blue  mountains  at  the  end  of  the  valley.  But  the 
river  has  been  up  there.  It  is  coming  back  now.  It 
loafs  in  the  meadows.  It  rushes  through  the  muddy 
town.  It  cuts  Main  Street  in  two  where  the  bridge 
stands;  it  sings  a  hearty  tune  at  night  over  the  flash- 
boards  of  the  dams;  its  ice  booms  with  the  bitter  cold 
of  the  winter;  clouds  of  gnats  hover  over  its  industry- 
stained  waters  in  August ;  on  one  side,  in  the  bending 
alders,  the  catbird  squawks;  on  the  other  bank  the 
belting  in  the  red  shoe  factory  complains. 

The  factory  squats  on  the  bank  like  a  creature  too. 
Its  windows  are  eyes.  They  keep  watch  over  the  town. 
They  see  the  flag  raised  on  the  old  New  England  lib 
erty  pole  at  the  end  of  the  green  common;  they  see 
farms  on  the  half-distant  hillsides  —  red  and  white 
with  rock-filled  pastures  and  winding  white  roads  edged 


JIM  HANDS  3 

with  the  yellow  of  goldenrod.  They  see  wisps  of  wood 
smoke  from  the  chimneys  at  supper-time. 

The  factory  windows  see  the  lighted  face  of  the  clock 
on  the  "  Opera  House."  They  see  the  few  old  man 
sions  between  the  elms  at  one  end  of  the  village;  they 
see  a  hundred  modern  wooden  cottages  and  boarding- 
houses  where  live  the  workmen  in  the  factories.  They 
see  the  farm  wagons  go  by  with  the  old  type  on  the  seats. 
They  see  the  barber-shop  across  the  river  next  to  the 
Phenix  Hotel  with  the  new  type  in  its  chairs. 

The  factory  sees  that  some  sort  of  a  new  civilization 
is  replacing  some  sort  of  an  old  civilization.  It  sees, 
in  the  break  of  buildings  between  the  First  National 
Bank  and  Masonic  Hall  on  Main  Street,  the  move- 
--ment  of  pay-day  night,  when  the  store  windows  are 
bright  and  the  screen-doors  slam  behind  well-dressed 
wives  of  well-clothed  factory  workmen.  It  sees  the 
modern  hats  of  girls,  gayly  trimmed,  mingling  with  the 
sombre  bonnets  of  women  who  are  in  from  the  country. 

Before  its  doors,  in  the  right  weather,  when  the  heat 
waves  rise  from  the  gravel  road,  wagons  pass  laden 
with  hay,  leaving  behind  them  the  smell  of  fields 
to  mingle  with  the  odors  of  machine  grease  and  sole 
leather  and  thread  wax.  And  at  the  factory  door  one 
can  listen  to  the  turbine  rolling  and  nevertheless  hear 
also  the  splash  of  a  pickerel  in  the  river. 

Like  the  factory  windows,  the  windows  of  Jim  Hands' 
cottage  see  all  below  and  all  up  the  valley,  where,  on 


4  JIM  HANDS 

moonlight  evenings  in  autumn  the  river  mists,  so  it 
seems,  sway  out  of  their  hollows  toward  the  mountains. 
Jim  surveyed  it  all  with  his  hands  upon  the  ledge.  The 
fading  light  showed  the  homely  front  room  of  his  house ; 
especially  it  exhibited  the  family  photographs  perching 
upon  the  mantel  over  the  stove,  the  stove  which  had 
fought  many  a  gallant  battle  with  the  crisp  cold  that 
comes  down  over  the  Canadian  border.  The  last  rays 
fell  across  the  foreman's  own  face. 

When  one  works  on  a  cutting-bench  and  turns  a 
knife  about  the  sharpest  corner  on  the  pattern,  it  is 
necessary  to  screw  up  the  features,  no  matter  how 
imperceptibly,  as  if  to  warn  the  hand  against  a  slip. 
After  years  and  years  that  screwing  up  of  the  corners 
of  the  mouth  and  eyes  makes  its  irreparable  mark, 
as  millions  of  feet  will  wear  out  the  marble  steps  of 
the  court-house.  Jim  has  the  significant  wrinkles. 
He,  like  his  front  room,  is  homely.  And  yet  there  is 
in  his  face  that  which  awakens  in  other  men  a  warm 
and  pleasant  feeling.  It  could  only  belong  to  an 
American,  in  spite  of  all  its  traces  of  foreign  blood. 
There  are  qualities  in  it  which  call  to  mind  those  sombre 
portraits  of  old  citizens,  sea-captains,  perhaps,  or  farm 
ers,  or  presidents  of  ancient  institutions,  which  are 
found  in  musty  albums  or  mildewed  in  rickety  picture- 
frames.  They  looked  like  men  who  had  wrestled 
with  something  and  won  a  victory  of  some  kind. 
Somehow  it  seemed  as  if  their  lives  and  their  accom- 


JIM  HANDS  5 

plishments  and  the  lines  in  their  faces  had  grown  out 
of  one  soil.  The  clothes  they  wore  did  not  conceal  the 
significance  of  the  national  traits  common  to  all  these 
faces.  Nor  do  the  soft  shirt  and  drooping  coat  and 
nose-reddening  spectacles  of  Jim  Hands  conceal  his 
right  to  belong  to  the  brotherhood  of  that  virtuous 
endeavor  which  has  in  it  something  typical  of  America. 
His  features  are,  indeed,  homely.  They  are  patient, 
kind,  and  strong. 

Had  some  old  ballad-maker  strolled  out  of  the  past 
as  Jim  stood  there  with  his  hands  on  the  window-ledge 
and  his  face  reflecting  the  sunset,  he  might  have  said, 
' '  Let  me  sing  of  the  army  of  the  nameless,  —  the  drudg 
ing  clerks,  the  obscure  family  doctors,  the  fameless 
'*  judges  of  probate,  the  toilers  in  the  factories,  and  men 
like  these  in  many  callings,  —  who  labor  cheerfully 
in  shadows,  in  their  homes  are  patient,  and  outside  are 
just,  and  maintain,  though  it  be  not  true,  that  every 
woman  is  good." 

The  rattle  of  a  dish  in  the  kitchen  behind  the  closed 
door  ended  Jim's  reflective  mood.  He  lit  his  pipe. 
He  went  back  to  the  rocking-chair.  "Annie,"  said  he, 
speaking  of  his  wife,  "will  soon  have  the  dishes  done. 
Little  John  has  been  helping  her  wipe  'em  since  he 
come  back  from  his  school,  and  the  only  reason  I  know 
it  is  that  I've  been  missing  so  much  of  the  crockery." 
He  grunted  between  each  puff  of  his  pipe.  "It's 
dark  here  now  —  do  you  want  a  lamp  lit  ?  Some 


6  JIM  HANDS 

people  must  always  sit  in  a  glare  of  light.  They're 
the  same  kind  that  like  red  wall-paper.  Trying  to  have 
things  cheerful.  As  if  cheerfulness  could  be  hung 
at  so  much  a  roll  or  drawn  through  the  gas-pipe  into 
a  city  flat.  Of  course,  if  you  want  a  light,  —  it's  no 
bother,  —  just  say  so.  I  - 

Again  the  girl's  voice,  humming  a  snatch  of  tune, 
silenced  him.  There  were  steps  on  the  gravel,  and 
between  the  two  trees  that  stood  one  on  either  side 
of  the  path  from  the  gate  to  the  door  a  flick  of  moving 
white  showed  in  the  haze  of  the  night,  as  if  some  half- 
real  creature  of  the  forest  had  come  out  to  dance  over 
the  fields  down  the  lights  of  the  factory  town. 

Jim's  rocking-chair  creaked  as  if  the  muscles  of  his 
body  were  reflecting  some  emotion.  He  did  not  move 
as  the  front  door  was  softly  opened  and  shut,  nor  as 
a  light  step  moved  toward  the  second  door  which 
separated  the  living-room  from  the  hall  —  that  hall 
where  the  children's  hats  hung  and  rubber  shoes  stood 
in  a  row  upon  the  floor.  The  door  was  pushed  open 
quietly,  but  the  darkness  prevented  any  one  within 
from  seeing  who  stood  framed  there. 

Then,  suddenly,  Jim  struck  a  match.  The  circle 
of  light  expanded;  it  seemed  to  reach  out  across  the 
rose-patterned  carpet ;  it  touched  the  hem  of  a  woman's 
gown;  it  leaped  upward  to  the  woman's  face.  Eyes 
as  clear  as  mountain  pools,  and  the  color  of  reflected 
autumn  foliage,  momentarily  half  dazed  by  the  sudden 


JIM  HANDS  7 

light,  looked  from  the  doorway,  as  if  trying  to  determine 
whether  Jim  Hands  sat  alone. 

She  had  the  rich,  half-red,  half-brown  mass  of  hair 
which  so  often  is  seen  as  a  peculiar  beauty  conferred 
upon  women  with  cold,  white,  transparent  skins  and 
small  stature.  In  this  girl,  however,  the  luxury  of 
color  and  mass  crowned  a  figure  which  was  tall,  erect, 
pliant,  and  poised  as  only  healthy  bodies  can  be,  with 
the  suggestion  of  easy  muscular  action  unhampered 
by  too  much  weight.  And  the  flesh  of  her  hands,  her 
face,  and  neck  was  of  that  warm  color  that  suggests, 
like  a  field  of  ripening  grain,  the  open  air  and  sunlight. 
Upon  her  face  a  look  of  doubt  and  a  smile  of  greeting, 
both  in  being  at  one  moment,  indicated  the  adaptability 
of  her  features  to  express  her  emotions;  her  beauty 
was  the  beauty  of  a  woman  who  has  had  enough  of 
living  to  enrich  these  emotions,  not  too  much  to  dull 
them  or  to  take  the  light  and  vivacity  from  a  girlish 
face. 

That  a  woman's  attractions  compel  observation 
before  any  peculiarity  of  her  dress  is  an  unusual  trib 
ute  to  her  personality;  this  girl,  one  could  see,  not 
at  the  first,  but  only  at  the  second,  glance,  was  not 
dressed  as  a  member  of  a  workman's  family.  There 
was  no  elaboration  of  her  gown ;  it  was  simple  drapery 
of  a  light  and  flowing  material  that  spoke  in  some  un 
known  way  of  its  own  elegance.  It  was  of  that  buff 
color  sometimes  seen  in  orchids;  with  it  she  wore  a 


8  JIM  HANDS 

single  ornament  —  a  malachite  pin  that  held  together 
the  folds  of  the  gown  at  the  point  where  her  neck  was 
bare.  The  green  of  this  pin  revealed  by  the  flare  of 
the  burning  match  made  a  well-balanced  harmony 
between  the  color  of  the  material  and  the  warm  and 
delicate  flesh  tints.  For  the  moment,  neither  her 
fresh  beauty,  her  bearing,  nor  her  clothes  seemed  a  part 
of  Jim  Hands'  household.  The  picture  was  as  sur 
prising  as  would  be  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  mer 
maid  in  a  public  fountain. 

She  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  surprise.  The  match 
went  out.  She  had  only  stood  there  a  moment.  Like 
an  image  of  the  fancy  she  had  gone.  Only  the  sound 
of  a  soft,  retreating  step  in  the  hall  remained,  and  in 
the  room,  dark  once  more,  Jim's  pipe-bowl,  topped 
by  a  disk  of  glowing  red,  was  the  only  discernible  object. 
He  was  drawing  upon  it  with  measured,  deliberate 
inhalations. 

"That  was  her/'  he  said.  "She's  a  beauty.  But 
she  don't  know  it  now.  You  think  so,  don't  you? 
At  twelve  she  was  all  elbows  and  knees,  and  tripping 
over  anything  that  weren't  sandpapered  down  to  a 
dead  level,  and  loose-moving  like  this  month's  colt  or 
a  hound  puppy,  and  had  a  voice  that  would  kinder 
make  a  tin  pan  ashamed  to  look  you  in  the  face. 
She's  changed.  I  oughter  know;  I've  seen  her  for 
twenty-four  years,  and  her  youngster  is  two  years  old 
now  —  fat  and  healthy  as  an  exhibit  at  a  county  fair. 


JIM  HANDS  9 

"  Ain't  it  funny  where  people  come  from  and  where 
they  get  to  and  where  they're  going?  Ain't  it  funny 
how  people  —  even  women  —  can  aim  at  something 
and  get  there  by  and  by  Ain't  it  strange  about  her? 
Why,  that's  my  girl  —  that's  Katherine  —  my  daugh 
ter.  I'll  tell  you  about  her.  I'll  tell  you" 


CHAPTER  II 

CHILDREN  is  a  terrible  investment.  Of  course  they're 
much  riskier  for  rich  folks  than  for  people  like  my 
Annie  and  me.  Rich  families  don't  have  the  time  to 
give  to  raising  'em,  being  altogether  too  busy  trying 
to  fill  in  moments  of  idleness.  And  while  I'm  speaking 
of  Katherine  I  might  as  well  say  that  children  is  like 
caterpillars.  My  little  Mike's  school-teacher  gave  him 
a  lot  of  'em  and  told  him  to  raise  'em  to  butterflies. 
That  is  the  training  the  youngsters  get  in  these  days 
to  prepare  'em  for  a  world  filled  with  newspapers  ad 
vertising  gold-mines.  Anyhow,  some  of  these  cater 
pillars  were  soft  and  furry  and  pretty  as  anything  you 
ever  saw,  and  others  of  'em  were  that  ugly  that  just 
looking  at  'em  would  make  you  feel  like  a  morning  at 
the  dentist's.  But  you  couldn't  tell  how  they  was 
going  to  come  out.  The  homeliest  of  'em  hatched 
into  little  flying-machines,  so  pretty  that  they  would 
embarrass  a  lot  of  Christmas-tree  ornaments. 

That  was  the  way  with  my  youngsters.  Little  John 
was  a  baby  then,  so  ugly  that  the  neighbors  hated  to 
look  at  him  and  hear  my  Annie  tell  how  pretty  he  was, 
and  Michael  was  always  in  a  dream,  and  kinder  stupid 
acting,  though  I've  learned  since  he  was  thinking  out 

10 


JIM  HANDS  11 

for  himself  what  most  boys  have  to  learn  by  conversa 
tion.  And  there  was  Katherine  —  just  as  I  said  — 
awkward  and  falling  over  chairs,  and  thin  and  flat- 
chested,  and  when  she'd  stand  up  she'd  stoop  in  two 
places  so  she  looked  like  the  letter  S. 

I  loved  'em.  And  I  said  nothing  to  my  Annie,  but 
I  remember  I  sometimes  would  watch  'em  going  down 
Maple  Street  to  school  and  say,  "Jim,  your  posterity 
will  leave  some  queer  impressions  about  the  old  man." 

My  Annie  herself  began  to  worry  about  Katherine. 
Have  you  noticed  that  there  are  two  mother  instincts? 
The  second  one  comes  when  a  daughter  begins  to  stop 
being  a  little  girl  and  the  time  for  her  mating  has  come. 
I've  seen  mothers  act  like  tigers  then.  They  put  on 
war-paint  and  other  aristocracy,  and  make  dresses  for 
the  girl  till  their  ringers  is  all  stained  with  the  brass 
thimble,  and  look  at  every  young  man  as  if  he  was  a 
burglar,  and  every  day  they  fight  to  see  that  if  any  match 
is  made  it  will  be  a  good  one,  and  every  night  they  lie  on 
the  pillow,  looking  up  at  the  moonlight  on  the  ceiling, 
and  plan  so  hard  they  have  to  turn  down  another  blanket. 
And  Annie  began  to  see  that  something  would  have 
to  be  done  about  the  girl. 

"Jim,"  she  says  to  me,  "I  think  Katherine  oughter 
have  some  accomplishments,"  she  says.  "She'll  soon 
be  a  woman  —  before  we  realize  it,"  she  says.  "She's 
seventeen  now." 

"And  plays  on  the  pianner,"  says  I. 


12  JIM  HANDS 

"Yes,  dear,  she  does,"  says  she;  "but  she  has  to  stop 
and  go  back  so  much  that  it  sounds  the  way  writing 
looks  on  tissue  paper  when  you  go  back  and  try  to  rub 
out  every  other  word." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "what  accomplishments  do  you  want 
her  to  have?"  I  says.  "Name  'em,"  I  says. 

"Tis  very  hard  to  name  accomplishments,"  says 
my  Annie,  smoothing  down  her  dress.  "They're  the 
things  a  girl  can  do  in  company  who  don't  chew  gum," 
she  says.  "Maybe  it's  manners  I  have  in  mind," 
she  says.  "I  believe  the  girl  will  have  to  go  to  a  con 
vent,"  she  says,  "for  a  year  or  so,"  she  says. 

It  was  them  words  that  started  the  whole  story.  It 
was  them  words  that  took  the  girl  away  from  us,  and 
it  was  them  words  that  taught  me  the  great  lesson  that 
too  much  peace  and  prosperity  is  a  terrible  affliction 
upon  defenceless  human  beings. 

You  take  it  from  me,  prosperity  is  an  awful  fix.  The 
happiest  part  of  a  man's  life  is  when  he  ain't.  If  any 
body  comes  along  and  offers  to  give  you  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  tell  him  to  go  bet  it  on  the  races. 
Don't  get  along  so  fast  that  you  can't  enjoy  it. 

It's  a  fact.  The  best  fun  in  life  is  being  young, 
healthy,  married,  and  poor !  You  know  my  Annie  — 
the  best  ever.  Sense  and  grit  in  car-load  lots,  freight 
paid  —  that's  her !  Twenty-one  years  I'd  been  married 
to  her.  It  had  been  a  circus,  ups  and  downs  and  all 
arounds.  Once,  when  I  was  working  on  the  laster's 


JIM  HANDS  13 

bench,  we  had  to  use  overcoats  for  blankets,  and  it 
was  a  choice  sometimes  whether  we'd  have  hot  water 
or  cold  for  lunch.  We  grinned,  though,  —  she  and 
me,  —  we  grinned  together.  She  was  always  singing 
and  healthy  and  bothering  with  the  kids'  clothes  or 
hair  or  "Thank  you,  ma'am,"  and  right  to-day  she's 
as  straight  and  thin  and  pink  as  the  day  I  married  her. 
I  believe  health  is  just  having  no  time  to  be  sick.  And 
maybe  it  helps  out  a  little  to  have  the  kitchen  boiler 
burst  once  in  a  while  in  winter,  and  a  rat  die  in  the  walls 
sometime  during  the  summer,  —  for  health ! 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  this  time  I  speak  of  began  four 
years  ago  come  this  October.  "  We've  got  to  send  the 
girl  to  the  convent,"  says  Annie  to  me.  "  She's  been 
learned  all  they  can  learn  her  at  the  high  school,  which 
ain't  much,  or  the  teacher  in  the  third  grade  wouldn't 
wear  them  hair  puffs." 

"Who'll  play  the  pianner  so  poor  when  she's  gone," 
says  I,  ugly  at  the  thought  of  it.  "And  we  just  bought 
it  —  made  of  rosewood,  too,  that  is  twice  the  sweeter 
toned  than  them  black  ones." 

"You  might  as  well  say  a  red  automobile  goes  faster 
than  a  green  one,"  says  she. 

"Well,  I  don't  pertend  to  know  nothing  of  musical 
instruments,"  says  I,  "but  I  do  pertend  to  know  that 
the  girl  sets  on  the  arm  of  my  chair  when  I  read  evenings, 
and  it's  worth  eight  dollars  a  sit." 

"She  oughter  go,"   says   Annie;  —  confidential,  I'll 


14  JIM  HANDS 

tell  you  that  she's  the  boss  of  the  house,  though  you 
must  say  nothing  about  it;  —  "We  have  the  money 
to  send  her,"  she  says,  "and  Jim,  dear,  our  boy  Mike 
will  be  away  this  winter,  too,  and  little  John,  as  you 
know,  is  with  his  aunt  Maria." 

"And  you  might  as  well  have  no  children! "  says  I, 
"with  every  one  of  'em  away  forgetting  whether  I 
wear  a  mustache  or  a  beard." 

She  looks  at  me  with  the  devil  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
says,  says  she,  "'Tis  very  sudden  you  get  so  tender 
and  sentimental,"  she  says.  "Only  yesterday  you  was 
laying  plans  to  put  little  John  over  your  knee  for  smok 
ing  coffee  in  your  favorite  pipe,  and  you  was  going  to 
disown  Michael  altogether  for  buying  a  pair  of  red  and 
black  striped  socks,  and  you  told  your  darling  daughter 
that  the  next  time  she  leaned  over  the  fence  to  talk 
with  that  silly  Bolton  boy,  you'd  go  and  take  a  room 
at  the  hotel,  where  you  didn't  have  to  listen  to  such 
foolishness." 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "  'tis  all  right.  I  suppose  you'll  have 
it  all  arranged  now.  Who  am  I  to  oppose  you  ?  " 

"Jim,  dear,"  she  says,  coming  and  sitting  beside 
me  on  the  door-step.  "You'll  not  misunderstand, 
dear,  will  you?  But  I  just  want  to  tell  you  that  for 
nearly  eighteen  years  —  ever  since  the  daughter  came 
-  there  hasn't  been  a  minute  that  I  haven't  been  a 
wife  and  mother.  It  makes  me  laugh  when  I  think 
of  the  number  of  cakes  of  soap,  safety  pins,  and  hand- 


JIM  HANDS  15 

fuls  of  baking-soda  have  gone  through  these  two  hands 
of  mine.  And  I  suppose  that  the  idea  of  the  house 
being  free  and  clear  of  it  all  for  the  winter  seems  good 
to  me  because  I'm  tired,  maybe,  and  now  we're  in  good 
circumstances,  Jim,  I  just  thought  I'd  like  to  have  - 

And  there  she  stopped,  so  I  says  to  her,  "What  is  it, 
Annie?" 

"Well,"  she  says,  plucking  at  her  apron,  "I  don't 
know  what  you'll  think  of  me,  but  I'll  just  be  glad  for 
the  children  to  be  away  now  that  it's  for  their  good  to 
go.  I'd  be  glad  to  have  nothing  to  do.  I'd  be  glad 
to  have  a  little  idleness,  dear." 

"God  save  you,"  says  I,  with  half  a  lot  of  trouble  not 
to  have  my  eyes  wet.  "You've  earned  it  sixty  ways. 
You  want  nothing  to  do,  and  I'll  give  it  to  you.  We'll 
have  a  peaceful  winter ! "  says  I,  and  with  that  she 
presses  my  hand  as  if  she  was  still  a  young  thing  sitting 
out  with  me  on  a  park  bench. 

And  she  says  over  after  me,  "A  peaceful  winter," 
and  it's  terrible  to  think  of  them  words ! 

I'm  not  speaking  of  the  wrench  it  gave  us  to  get  rid 
of  the  children.  That  was  bad  enough.  I  remember 
the  day  came  for  Katherine  to  go.  All  the  arrange 
ments  had  been  made,  and  Annie  was  saying  that  this 
dress  was  in  the  tray  of  the  trunk,  and  the  heaviest 
underclothing  had  all  been  marked  with  her  name. 
I  guess  there  weren't  any  of  us  —  Annie,  the  girl,  or  me 
—  that  knew  what  it  was  going  to  be  to  say  good-by. 


16  JIM  HANDS 

It  is  only  at  them  times  that  you  get  them  wonderful 
forewarnings  of  railroad  accidents  and  disease  and 
awful  dangers  that  don't  happen  and  that  women  call 
their  intuition,  if  I  have  the  word  correct. 

We  got  down  to  the  station  all  right.  It  was  about 
four  o'clock,  and  the  finest  day  you  ever  saw.  A  good 
many  people  knew  the  girl  was  going  away,  and  there 
was  a  lot  of  talk  about  it,  and  I  was  proud  that  I  could 
send  her.  I  was  feeling  fine  and  in  good  spirits.  And 
then  the  engine  whistled  and  the  old  station-master, 
Harry  Batchelder,  dragged  the  baggage  truck  out  on  to 
the  edge  of  the  platform,  and  I  seen  my  girl's  new  trunk 
on  it,  and  it  almost  turned  me  sick. 

"Annie,"  I  whispers,  grabbing  my  wife's  arm, 
"Katherine  is  going  away!"  I  says. 

"Of  course  she  is,"  says  Annie,  laughing  at  me. 
"What  did  you  buy  a  ticket  for?"  says  she.  "Did 
you  think  you'd  get  one  with  a  lucky  number?  "  says 
she.  "What's  the  matter  with  your  hand?  Have 
you  got  a  chill?"  she  says.  "Don't  show  your  silly 
feelings  to  all  these  folks,"  she  says.  "Watch  me,  and 
learn  how  to  control  yourself,"  she  says. 

By  that  time  the  train  had  come  in.  It  was  all  over 
in  a  minute.  Katherine  had  climbed  up  on  the  back 
platform.  The  train  was  going  out.  It  all  went  like 
a  moving  picture  running  too  fast.  And  then  Annie 
caught  at  my  coat  and  began  to  cry.  Somehow  it 
didn't  seem  wrong. 


JIM  HANDS  17 

But  I  was  watching  that  girl  on  the  platform  wav 
ing  to  us.  She  didn't  look  the  same.  All  at  once  she 
seemed  to  be  ready  to  come  out  of  herself  into  some 
thing  new.  I  seen  for  the  first  time  that  she  weren't 
awkward.  I  seen  she  was  almost  pretty.  I  seen  how 
thick  her  hair  had  grown.  I  seen  her  figure  had  filled 
out.  I  seen  she  was  almost  a  woman.  And  I  was 
scared,  for  I  couldn't  just  see  what  she  would  become 
any  more  than  I  could  tell  about  little  Mike's  cater 
pillars.  And  I  was  scared.  I  never  guessed  what 
them  months  would  do. 


CHAPTER   III 

WE  had  some  experience  right  at  home.  I  ain't 
saying  that  things  didn't  go  right  at  first,  you  under 
stand.  Of  course,  it  was  surprising  how  large  the  house 
got.  I  didn't  know  I'd  bought  anything  but  a  cheap 
cottage,  but  when  the  children  was  gone,  every  room 
seemed  as  big  as  an  opera  hall,  and  there  weren't  any 
rubbers  on  the  floor  under  the  stairs,  nor  new  digs  in 
the  wall-paper  at  the  landing,  and  the  books  on  the 
parlor  table  was  piled  so  neat,  I  got  mad  and  turned 
'em  upside  down  so's  the  biggest  ones  would  sit  on 
the  top,  and  when  the  mice  would  come  out  for  crumbs 
after  dinner  when  I  was  reading  my  paper,  I  could 
hear  'em  very  plain.  It  sounded  as  if  they  wore 
wooden  shoes. 

Annie  would  sit  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  eve 
nings  and  sew,  and  we  talked  to  each  other  for  a  month, 
and  then  began  all  over  again,  saying  just  what  we'd 
said  before,  and  after  a  month  had  gone  by  we'd  told 
each  other  everything  we  knew,  and  some  extras.  The 
wind  would  holler  outside,  and  maybe  Annie  would 
say  it  smelled  like  snow  that  night,  and  then  a  fly  that 
had  been  warmed  by  the  round  stove  would  buzz  into 
the  corners  where  it  was  dark,  and  I  could  hear  the 

18 


JIM  HANDS  19 

water  drip  from  the  faucet  in  the  kitchen  sink,  and  I 
kinder  missed  Annie's  step  upstairs  when  she  would 
walk  around  over  my  head,  putting  little  John  to  bed. 

"This  quiet  is  a  great  blessing  to  us  both,  Jim,  ain't 
it  ?  "  says  she,  studying  to  see  how  I'd  answer. 

"It's  more  monotonous  than  a  lot  of  noise,"  says  I 
to  myself;  and  to  her  I  says,  "What  do  you  think 
about  when  I'm  at  the  factory?  "  says  I. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Jim,  "  says  she.  "There  used 
to  be  so  much  to  plan  when  we  was  scraping  along. 
I'd  plan  then  of  how  we'd  be  able  to  buy  a  pianner 
for  the  daughter,  and  what  we'd  plant  around  the 
maple  tree  if  we  owned  the  house,  and  whether  I'd 
get  gray  blankets  that  don't  look  so  swell  and  put 
white  spreads  over  'em,  or  white  blankets  that  cost 
more  and  don't  need  no  spread  for  the  likes  of  us. 
But  I  don't  have  to  plan  like  that  any  more.  It's  a 
perfect  rest,"  says  she.  "I  don't  have  to  think  of 
nothing.  And  if  it  weren't  for  a  pain  I  have  here," 
she  says,  putting  her  hand  under  her  arm,  "that  worries 
me,"  she  says,  "I'd  be  contented,  I  suppose." 

"A  pain!"  says  I.     "Worries  you!" 

"Yes,"  she  says.  "I've  had  a  mind  to  go  see  Dr. 
Ward.  I've  not  been  to  a  doctor  these  eight  years. 
Many's  the  time  I  feel  bad  and  say  nothing  to  you,  Jim. 
And  yesterday  I  was  looking  in  the  mirror,  and  I  be 
lieve  I've  got  something  growing  in  my  throat." 

I  drops  my  newspaper  on  the  floor  and  was  scared, 


20  JIM  HANDS 

till  I  remembered  how  healthy  she'd  always  been. 
But  there  weren't  two  weeks  gone  when  something 
worse  began  to  happen.  I  remember  how  I  come 
home  one  day  from  work  and  I  seen  her  sitting  in  the 
parlor  winder;  but  she  didn't  come  to  meet  me  at  the 
door,  and  when  I  walks  in  she  was  still  sitting  looking 
out  over  the  hills. 

"  You've  got  bad  news/'  I  says,  with  my  lungs  laying 
down  in  my  stomach  for  freight. 

"Oh,  no,"  says  she.  "I'm  just  tired  out.  If  it 
weren't  wicked,  I'd  wish  I  was  dead.  Every  day  is 
just  like  another.  It  seems  as  if  I  was  no  good  any 
more  —  no  good  to  any  one,"  she  says.  "There's 
the  fourth  letter  from  our  girl.  It  depressed  me  to 
read  it,"  she  says. 

I  thought  maybe  something  was  wrong  with  Katherine, 
so  I  picked  the  envelope  off  the  mantelpiece  and  hardly 
dared  to  start  it. 

"It's  good,  firm,  stylish  handwriting,"  I  says. 
"I  think  I  see  an  improvement  in  them  o's  and  capital 
W's,"  I  says.  "What's  this  ?  Getting  along  fine? 
Rising  early  in  the  morning  for  prayers.  Sister  Maria 
says  she  has  a  bending  toward  the  French  language. 
All  the  other  girls  think  her  dresses  is  pretty.  Fine 
view  from  her  window  over  the  St.  Lawrence  River. 
Complexion  much  better.  Why,"  says  I,  "what  have 
you  to  complain  of  ?  There  ain't  any  member  of  my 
family  could  write  as  graceful  as  that  and  cut  them 


JIM  HANDS  21 

literary  figure  eights,"  I  says,  "or  report  better  news," 
I  says. 

"0  dear!"  says  she,  shaking  her  head  very  sad. 
"She  has  outgrown  her  mother,"  she  says.  "I'm  no 
more  use  to  her." 

"You're  crazy,"  says  I.  "Annie,  girl,  there  ain't 
anything  the  matter?" 

With  that  I  seen  her  look  up  at  me  with  a  flash  in 
her  eyes  I  ain't  seen  since  I  quit  drinking.  "Oh, 
that's  like  you,"  she  says,  throwing  up  her  hands. 
"I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this.  You've  as 
good  as  called  me  a  liar." 

"No,  I  ain't,  Annie,"  I  says.  "I  was  only  going  to 
say-" 

"I  know  what  you  was  going  to  say,"  she  comes 
back  at  me  before  I  could  finish.  "You  was  going 
to  say  that  I  showed  signs  of  growing  old." 

"What  the  hell!"  says  I. 

With  that  she  jumped  up.  "Jim  Hands,"  says  she, 
hot  and  shrill,  "you've  sworn  at  me !  You've  cursed 
your  wife ! " 

"Annie,"  says  I,  "I'm  sorry.     I  never  - 

"Don't  expect  me  to  forgive  it,"  says  she.  "You 
have  no  shame,"  says  she,  "to  stand  up  there  and  admit 
it.  But  it's  like  you.  I  thought  it  would  come  out  some 
day.  It's  your  brutal  nature,"  she  says. 

"Look  here,"  says  I,  —  for  by  that  time  an  angel 
in  heaven'd  be  looking  for  a  brickbat,  —  "what  do 


22  JIM  HANDS 

you  think  you  are?    You  behave  yourself,  or  I'll  give 
you  something  that'll  surprise  you." 

"Not  me !  "  she  says,  says  she.  It  was  at  the  door 
she  was  standing,  and  she  says,  "You  weren't  ever 
fitted  to  have  a  wife.  Don't  expect  me  to  care  what  you 
do,"  says  she,  and  went  up  the  stairs;  and  I  heard 
the  key  turn  in  the  bedroom  lock. 

I  was  hot.  I  sticks  on  my  hat  again  and  out  I  went. 
You  know  how  a  feller  feels.  Starts  off  to  walk  a 
thousand  miles  and  never  come  back !  It  had  just  come 
on  to  rain,  —  one  of  them  cold  December  rains,  - 
and  I  hadn't  gone  half  a  mile  before  I  began  to  feel  bad 
about  it.  We'd  never  in  eighteen  years  passed  hot 
words  before.  I  knew  well  enough  it  weren't  my 
fault,  but  yet  I  suspected  it  was.  I  might  have  done 
this  or  said  that,  see?  I  was  a  big  fool  to  turn  back. 
Once  started,  I  oughter  have  done  something  to  scare 
her.  But  you  know  how  it  is,  being  a  man.  It's  for 
them  weaknesses  women  gets  the  best  of  us  —  and 
it's  better  so,  maybe. 

As  I  say,  I  went  back  with  feet  so  soaked  that  every 
time  I  lifted  'em  they  sounded  like  bottles  of  cough 
syrup,  and  there  was  the  front  door  standing  open  and 
my  Annie  in  it,  caring  nothing  for  the  wet  or  wind; 
and  when  she  seen  me  she  give  a  little  scream  and  says, 
"Oh,  Jim,  Jim,  I  thought  you  might  be  dead.  Come 
right  into  the  kitchen  till  I  get  you  a  dry  pair  of  socks. 
Oh,  Jim,  I've  been  such  a  fool." 


JIM  HANDS  23 

It  was  true,  of  course,  more  ways  than  one.  For 
standing  in  the  doorway  that  night  she'd  caught  a  cold 
that  kept  her  hacking  and  tossing  at  night  for  the  next 
three  weeks,  and  after  a  month  was  gone  she  did  look 
kinder  bad.  I  was  scared.  I  never  knew  what  struck 
her.  I  couldn't  tell  what  was  the  matter. 

She  had  forty  different  pains.  Never  sang  no  more, 
and  was  cross.  And  somebody  lent  her  a  book  called 
"  Every  Man  his  Own  Doctor,"  with  a  list  of  symptoms 
in  the  book.  And  that  made  things  seventy  times 
worse,  and  maybe  eighty. 

"Jim,  dear,"  she  says,  "I  feel  all  tired  out,  and  I  can 
scarce  move.  This  growth  in  my  throat,  too.  Will 
you  look  in  and  see  what  you  can  see?  Whenever  it 
comes  on  to  snow,  like  it  did  to-day,  it's  worse,  I  think. 
It  may  be  a  cancer  —  read  there  in  the  book  just  above 
where  your  thumb  is  now.  I'll  hold  the  lamp,  dear, 
and  you  look  down  my  throat,"  she  says. 

I  couldn't  see  nothing,  and  the  next  day  when  I 
went  off  in  the  morning  she  was  about  as  happy  as  a 
pan  of  wet  coal  ashes.  " Another  weary  day,"  says 
she,  "and  I  feel  so  bad,  Jim !  I  stayed  awake  all  night, 
thinking.  I  wondered  if  I  was  ever  able  to  do  my  duty 
again.  I  wondered  if  you  loved  me !  " 

"G'wan,"  says  I,  "what  talk  is  this  from  a  woman 
who  has  a  good  husband  who  don't  drink,  and  three  fine 
children,  all  healthy,  and  a  house  of  her  own,  and  the 
respect  of  everybody  in  town  —  even  the  boss's  wife !  " 


24  JIM  HANDS 

"I  know,  dear/'  she  says,  "but  I've  been  wondering 
what  I  would  do  if  Applegate's  store  didn't  have  them 
preserves  I  used  to  buy  there  last  winter.  It  just  made 
me  cry,  and  my  memory's  gone,  and  two  nights  running 
I  dreamed  I  was  going  to  die.  And,  Jim,  dear,  I  have 
a  feeling  that  it  will  come  true ! " 

Then  I  was  scared.  I  knew  for  three  months  there'd 
been  trouble.  That  was  sure.  It  stuck  out  and  smoked 
like  the  fuse  on  a  big  cannon  cracker.  Thunder  was 
going  to  pop !  'But  I  didn't  know  what  the  trouble 
was,  so  I  went  off  hot-foot  for  Dr.  Ward. 

You  know  him  —  Charlie  Ward.  His  father's  a 
farmer  up  in  Goldenville,  just  above  here.  You  wouldn't 
believe  it  to  see  Charlie.  He  don't  even  look  as  if 
he  came  from  a  muddy,  manufacturing,  water-power 
town  like  this.  And  he's  a  fine  doctor,  they  tell  me; 
only  he  says  that  horse-chestnuts  carried  in  the  pocket 
won't  keep  out  rheumatism,  and  so  he's  lost  customers 
on  that  account. 

He  said  to  me  he  thought  it  wiser  to  see  Annie  at 
home  than  in  his  office  on  Main  Street ;  and,  of  course, 
it  was  lots  wiser  for  him  —  a  dollar  and  a  half  wiser 
each  time.  So  he  came  in  that  night,  scenting  up  the 
room  with  that  doctor  smell,  and  rubbing  his  chin  as 
if  the  seat  of  thought  was  in  his  jaws,  and  stepping 
soft  and  speaking  quiet  as  if  he  was  an  advance  agent 
for  a  cremation  company. 

"How  long  have  you  had  this  little  cough?" 


JIM  HANDS  25 

" Three  weeks,"  says  Annie. 

"H'm !  H'm !  "  says  he,  like  that  —  as  if  he'd  have 
us  know  he  was  thinking,  but  none  of  our  business  what 
he  thought. 

" Don't  forget,"  says  I,  "to  tell  him  of  your  ache 
under  your  arm,  and  how  your  hair  comes  out,  and 
the  shooting  pain  across  the  back  of  your  neck,  and 
the  dizzy  spells,  and  how  your  heart  slips  under  the 
belting,  and  you  can't  sleep,  and  you're  all  tired  out," 
I  says. 

"H'm!  H'm!"  says  he,  and  he  takes  a  picture  of 
Father  Ryan  off  the  mantelpiece  and  looks  at  the  front 
of  it  and  at  the  back  of  it,  and  he  says,  "Have  you  had 
any  fever  afternoons  ?  " 

"I  believe  I  have,"  says  she,  "now  that  you  speak 
of-  it." 

"H'm!'  H'm!  "  says  he.  "You'd  best  come  to  the 
office  to-morrow,  and  we'll  make  an  examination," 
he  says,  squinting  one  eye.  "We  oughter  know  just 
what's  the  matter,  hadn't  we  ?  "  he  says  —  for  all  them 
doctors  talk  to  you  like  plumbers,  as  if  you  didn't  know 
but  little  about  the  mysteries  of  leaks  and  clogged  pipes, 
and  oughter  be  horsewhipped  for  knowing  that. 

Well,  sir,  if  you  ever  see  a  hen  sitting  on  the  safety 
valve  of  a  eighty-ton  boiler  when  she  blew  off  pressure, 
you've  seen  how  I  felt  after  I  talked  to  the  doctor  that 
next  Thursday. 

The  big  fool  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder!    That 


26  JIM  HANDS 

was  enough.  I  knew  he  was  going  to  pass  me  a  package, 
all  right.  He  meant  well.  He'd  seen  it  done  in  a  play, 
I  guess.  But  it  scared  me  before  he'd  said  a  word. 

"And,"  he  says,  "Jim,"  he  says,  "I'm  afraid  your 
wife  is  in  bad  condition,"  he  says.  "She  must  have 
a  complete  rest,"  he  says.  "She  mustn't  do  any  house 
work  of  any  kind,"  he  says,  "not  so  much  as  wipe  a 
dish." 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  I  says. 

"It's  a  combination  of  things,"  says  he. 

"What's  its  name?"  I  says. 

He  never  answers.  But  he  says,  "There  is  some 
suspicious  symptoms  that  points  toward  a  tendency 
to  tuberculosis,"  he  says,  "and  a  sign  of  impoverished 
circulation,"  he  says,  "with  attendant  melancholia," 
he  says.  "Complete  rest  and  care  may  prevent  any 
thing  serious,"  he  says,  for  I  remember  them  words 
by  the  fright  they  give  me. 

"And,"  he  says,  "I've  told  your  wife  about  what 
to  do,"  he  says,  "and  she  is  going  to  send  for  her  mother, 
Mrs.  Byrnes,  I  believe.  So  you  can  get  along,  Jim, 
with  her  to  do  the  cooking,  and  it's  lucky  the  children 
is  all  away." 

"Have  you  ever  et  any  of  Mrs.  Byrnes's  bread  ?  "  says 
I,  still  solemn;  and  with  that  I  went  out  of  the  office. 

But  it  turned  out  that  way  —  the  old  lady  came  up. 
You've  never  seen  her.  She's  fat,  and  puffs  when  she 
walks.  'Tis  a  great  secret  with  her  that  she  can't 


JIM  HANDS  27 

read  or  write,  and  she's  from  the  old  country,  as  she 
says,  though  many  years  ago.  Annie  takes  after  her 
father,  who  was  a  granite  worker  with  an  arm  like  a  piece 
of  braided  steel  hawser  —  thin  and  tough  —  and  a 
back  that  looked  as  if  it  was  stuffed  with  English  wal 
nuts.  But  the  old  lady  is  a  great  old  party,  though 
she's  got  no  learning.  She  ain't  short  on  experience, 
and  many's  the  time  I  heard  her  say,  "A  hound's 
nose  is  sharper  than  the  school-teacher's."  And  she's 
got  a  brogue  as  thick  as  it  is  long,  and  ain't  never 
satisfied  with  life  till  she's  made  the  house  no  place  to 
live  in  by  boiling  pickles  on  the  stove. 


CHAPTER   IV 

I  WELL  remember  the  night  I  met  her  at  the  station, 
when  the  seven-eighteen  come  coughing  up  the  grade. 
It's  a  cold  country —  this  —  in  winter,  and  sleighing  lasts 
from  Thanksgiving  till  you  wonder  why  it  don't  get 
tired  staying.  And  the  old  lady  got  down  from  the 
train  with  about  forty  thousand  boxes,  and  things 
done  up  in  straps,  and  a  tin  lard-pail,  and  a  jar  of  pickles 
with  the  paper  off,  so  she  looked  like  somebody  who'd 
looted  a  ship's  steerage.  And  her  breath  was  showing 
on  the  cold  air  —  puff  —  puff  —  puff  —  like  a  derrick 
engine  lifting  a  big  block  of  granite. 

"God  bless  ye,  Jimmy,  bye,"  she  says  to  me  just  like 
that.  "I  took  much  pleasure  reading  your  letter 
about  Annie's  sickness." 

"I  didn't  write  it,"  says  I.     "Annie  did." 

"I  don't  doubt  ye,"  says  she,  "for  my  eyes  is  getting 
bad.  And  what  ails  the  poor  darling?"  she  says. 
"Have  they  put  a  name  to  it  yet?  "  she  says. 

"No,"  says  I,  picking  up  her  stuff  for  her. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  she,  "if  it  ain't  one  of  them  old 
standard  disayses,"  she  says,  "ye  have  little  to  fear, 
bar  the  medicine,"  she  says,  and  winks  at  me  with  one 
of  her  old  eyes.  "I'll  cook  ye  one  of  them  pancakes. 

28 


JIM  HANDS  29 

Ye  was  after  being  fond  of  them  in  yer  courting 
days,"  she  says. 

That  was  the  kind  she  was,  cheerful  all  the  time,  and 
making  bread  with  bullets  of  baking-soda  peppered 
through  it  to  surprise  your  taste.  But  when  she  come, 
Annie  seemed  to  give  up.  She  got  so  she  would  hardly 
dress  to  come  down  to  her  meals,  and  dinner  over,  she'd 
give  a  sigh  and  go  off  to  her  room  again.  It  most  drove 
me  crazy.  She  who'd  been  that  healthy  and  happy, 
and  now  thinking  of  death,  and  I  tell  you  there  was 
times  when  I  was  at  work  I  didn't  know  whether  I  was 
in  the  factory  cutting-room,  or  sitting  thinking  in  the 
arm-chair  at  home  —  the  arm-chair  we  bought  out  of 
the  back  of  a  magazine. 

I  guess  it  was  a  week  had  gone  when  I  come  home 
one  night,  and  I  remember  it  was  the  day  the  trap  in 
the  penstock  busted  and  filled  the  turbine  full  of  ice 
and  shut  us  down.  I  stayed  with  the  boss  and  the 
engineer,  blocking  her  up  so  she  wouldn't  freeze  if  it 
come  up  cold,  and  I  was  late  home.  I  remember  I 
stopped  at  the  top  of  the  hill  there  and  looked  down 
into  the  village  with  the  light  in  the  town-hall  clock 
and  all  them  little  lights,  and  I  began  to  think  that  a 
feller  climbs  to  the  top  of  happiness  and  maybe  goes 
too  fast  and  slides  down  on  the  other  side. 

And  when  I  got  in,  Annie  weren't  there,  and  I  found 
her  mother  cleaning  up  in  the  kitchen.  I  better  say 
that  there's  one  thing  Annie  gets  from  the  old  woman, 


30  JIM  HANDS 

and  that's  a  set  on  her  jaw  when  she's  mad.  And  I 
could  see  it  on  the  mother's  face  right  then  —  sticking 
out  like  a  balcony  on  a  building. 

" Where's  Annie?"  says  I. 

"  Whist,  there,"  says  she,  holding  up  a  bottle.  "Make 
no  noise,  Jim.  I'm  pouring  the  doctor's  medicine  into 
a  rat-hole,  for  it  has  the  odor  for  their  sorrow,  me  bye." 

"What's  this?"  says  I,  for  I  saw  the  row  there'd 
be  over  her  crazy  tricks. 

"Be  still,  I  tell  ye,"  says  she.  "I  want  a  talk  wid 
ye  in  private,"  she  says.  "For  what  is  it  the  doctor 
says?  I've  dognosed  her  case,"  says  she. 

"Sit  there  by  the  stove,"  says  she,  "and  I'll  learn 
ye  something,"  she  says.  "I  know  what's  the  matter 
wid  the  girl,"  she  says,  "if  my  wits  ain't  broke  wid  my 
years.  Did  ye  ever  see  wan  of  these  rich  women  with 
no  children  and  nothing  to  do  ?  "  she  says. 

"I  have,"  says  I.  "The  boss's  oldest  daughter,  who's 
married  to  a  broker  in  New  York,  is  one  of  them." 

"Don't  be  interrupting  me,"  says  she.  "Ye  know 
nothing  about  it,  and  I  do.  I  was  out  in  service  till 
I  married  Jawn,  and  I  seen  more  than  many  of  them. 
And  I  tell  ye  that  poor  women  is  lucky  not  to  be  rich 
-for  it's  a  dread  disayse  to  be  a  rich  lady  without 
children." 

"What's  that  to  do  with  Annie?"  says  I. 

"She's  wan  av  them!"  says  she,  pressing  with  her 
hands  on  her  fat  hips  and  squeezing  out  a  sigh. 


JIM   HANDS  31 

"She  has  three  good  children,"  says  I. 

"They've  gone  away,"  she  says,  "and  this  rest  the 
doctor  talks  about  is  the  cause  av  the  evil.  Perfect 
peace,  Jim,  me  bye,  is  perfect  hell." 

"And  what  makes  you  think  it  of  her?  "  I  says. 

"Tis  quick  told,"  she  says.  "She  has  three  notions, 
and  these  is  them:  she  thinks  nobody  loves  her  any 
more,  and  she  thinks  she's  sick,  and  she  thinks  she'll 
see  what  happens  if  she  raises  the  devil." 

"Not  Annie!"  says  I,  getting  mad. 

"G'wan,"  says  she.  "You'd  be  worse  than  her  if 
ye  had  to  be  here  at  home  all  day.  An  angel  would 
be  worse  than  the  rest  of  us  in  the  same  fix,  for  there'd 
be  a  complaint  about  the  feathers  falling  out  av  the 
wings." 

"What  can  we  do?  "  says  I,  scratching  my  head. 

She  walks  over  to  me,  mysterious,  and  pokes  my 
vest  with  one  of  her  fat  fingers.  "Sure,  Jim,"  says  she, 
"we  must  take  this  perfect  peace  and  knock  spots  outer 
it,"  says  she. 

"We  must  give  her  something  real  to  worry  about," 
she  says.  "We  must  take  all  this  peace  and  prosperity 
and  wipe  the  ground  wid  it,  me  bye.  Whisper,"  says 
she,  and,  leaning  up  to  my  ear  as  if  the  kitchen,  with 
its  clocks  ticking,  had  been  crowded  with  secret-service 
men,  she  told  me  what  we  was  to  do. 

"We  must  quarrel  and  fight  contin'ous,"  she  says, 
"ye  and  yer  poor  old  mother-in-law,"  she  says. 


32  JIM  HANDS 

"It  must  be  strong,"  she  says,  with  a  rascally  look  in 
her  wrinkled  eyes,  "fast  and  furious  and  vi'lent," 
she  says.  "Throw  plates,"  she  says,  "and  mind  yer 
don't  hit  me,  or  I'll  lose  me  temper,"  she  says,  "and 
then  ye'll  have  something  to  regret,"  she  says. 

It  was  she  who  started  it.  It  was  the  next  morning 
at  breakfast,  with  the  sunlight  pouring  through  the 
windows  and  taking  the  chill  out  of  the  air.  But  my 
Annie  looked  as  if  she'd  never  had  a  friend.  Her  head 
was  hanging,  and  now  and  then  she'd  cough  so  as  not 
to  let  her  hand  get  out  of  practice.  The  old  lady  was 
bringing  the  coffee-pot  from  the  stove  to  the  table,  and 
all  of  a  sudden  she  stops. 

"Well!"  she  says;  "it's  a  wonder  ye  wouldn't 
say  good  morning  to  me,  Jim  Hands,"  she  says.  "You 
old  pieface  ! "  she  says.  "Anybody  would  think  I  was 
a  rent  collector  by  the  way  ye  act  to  me  since  I've  been 
in  the  house,"  she  says,  and  with  that  she  let  the  coffee 
pot  dangle  down  till  a  stream  of  it  began  to  run  out 
the  spout. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  see  what  you're  doing!" 
screams  Annie.  "And  what's  the  matter  between 
you  and  Jim?  " 

"I'll  soon  tell  ye,"  says  the  old  woman,  winking  at 
me.  "I  ain't  treated  with  no  respect,"  she  says. 
"Me  and  me  sixty-eight  years,"  she  says.  "And  I 
won't  take  no  more  av  yer  abuse,  Jim  Hands.  If  we 
can't  have  love  between  us,  we'll  have  something  else." 


JIM  HANDS  33 

And  with  that  she  threw  the  coffee-pot  and  all  into 
the  coal-scuttle. 

"Mother!     Mother!    Be  quiet,  dear/'  says  Annie. 

"Let  the  old  bird  go  home  if  she  don't  like  it,"  I  says. 

"Listen  to  him!"  the  old  lady  yells;  and  sitting 
down  to  the  table,  she  says,  "I'll  eat  me  breakfast  in 
spite  of  him  —  he's  always  starting  these  rows,  darlin'," 
she  says.  "I  think  he's  crazy  as  a  tooth  dying,"  she 
says. 

We  had  another  row  at  night,  too,  and  breakfast  the 
next  morning,  and  so  it  went. 

About  three  weeks  later,  one  evening,  when  I  came 
home,  I  found  Dr.  Ward  had  dropped  in  for  more 
expense,  and  I  was  half  scared  to  death  for  fear  he'd 
ask  about  the  medicine.  But  he'd  only  come  to  sit 
in  the  parlor  and  look  at  his  finger-nails  and  say, 
"How  is  our  patient  been  these  days?" 

"About  the  same,  doctor,"  says  my  Annie. 

"Any  more  pains  under  the  shoulder?  "  says  he. 

"That's  better,"  says  Annie. 

"H'm!  H'm!"  says  he,  marking  off  the  roses  in 
the  carpet  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

It  weren't  till  then  I  noticed  the  old  lady,  who  was 
sitting  on  the  sofa,  was  moving  her  big  weight  up  and 
down  on  the  springs. 

And  she  says,  "H'm!  H'm!"  after  the  doctor, 
and  got  up  and  waddles  over  to  where  he  was  sitting. 

"Why  don't  ye  come  out  with  it  ?  "  she  says.     "What 


34  JIM  HANDS 

satisfaction  will  the  girl  get  unless  ye  give  it  a  name 
she  can  tell  to  the  neighbors  ?  "  she  says. 

"Say  no  more,"  I  whispers  to  her. 

" Things  is  too  quiet,"  she  says  to  me. 

"I  don't  believe  you  quite  understand,"  says  Charlie 
Ward,  fingering  his  collar. 

"And  the  same  to  you,  and  many  av  them,"  the  old 
lady  says.  She  was  off,  and  I  couldn't  stop  her.  "The 
next  thing  we  know,"  she  says,  "you'll  be  wanting 
to  cut  her  open  for  a  look  inside,"  she  says. 

The  doctor  raises  up  and  blinks  at  her,  and  Annie 
says,  "Mother,  you've  said  enough." 

"'Twill  surprise  ye  all  to  hear  what  I'm  keeping 
back,"  says  the  old  lady.  "The  doctor  wouldn't 
have  to  listen  to  it  through  that  rubber  tube  of  his, 
ayther.  'Twould  be  aisy  to  dognose  my  mind  when  I 
was  through." 

"Excuse  me,"  says  Ward,  getting  up  and  reaching 
for  his  fur  cap.  "I  must  be  going." 

With  that  the  old  lady  pokes  her  finger  at  him. 
"Ho!  ho!  me  pill-shooter,"  says  she,  with  a  wicked 
grin,  "we  understand  each  other,  don't  we?  And 
you,  Jim,  sit  still ;  if  ye  go  to  begging  pardons  for  me, 
I  may  bring  shame  on  me  own  gray  hairs,"  she 
says. 

"Hush,  doctor,"  she  says,  going  on  with  her  loose 
talk.  "Let's  you  and  I  invent  a  disayse.  What  d'ye 
say,  old  sawbones?" 


JIM  HANDS  35 

"Oh,  mother,  dear,"  cries  Annie,  plucking  at  the 
old  lady's  checked  dress.  "  You  ain't  talking  like  your 
self.  Is  everybody  crazy  ?  " 

But  she  could  not  stop  her.  The  doctor  was  red  with 
his  temper,  and  it  kinder  seemed  as  if  he  couldn't 
speak.  But  that  didn't  stop  her,  either. 

"I  know  a  name  for  it,"  she  says,  "but  I'll  not  tell 
ye,  doctor.  You'd  take  it  away  to  frighten  folks  wid 
it,  ye  sly  old  dog,"  she  says. 

"Mother,  mother !  "  says  Annie  again,  but  the  doctor 
was  gone;  and  though  I  was  afraid  he  wouldn't  never 
come  back,  I  had  to  laugh. 

"What  are  ye  grinning  about?"  says  the  old  lady 
to  me.  "Insulting  me  again,  are  ye?  " 

So  it  went.  Such  rowing  and  noise  you  never  heard 
in  one  house,  and  Annie  was  getting  better. 

The  only  thing  that  set  her  back  was  hearing  from 
the  Sister  Superior  that  Katherine  had  won  some  sort 
of  a  prize  and  had  gained  twelve  pounds.  It  made  her 
feel  peaceful  again. 

It  was  on  a  Monday  that  the  big  fuss  came.  I  re 
member  I  had  been  out  in  the  yard  after  breakfast  to 
pick  up  a  shovel  that  had  got  lost  that  winter  under 
the  snow,  and  when  I  came  back,  the  old  woman  was 
scrubbing  clothes  in  the  wash-tubs  in  the  kitchen,  and 
Annie  was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  all  tired  out,  as 
she  said. 

"Look  there,  ye  nephew  of  the  devil,"  yells  the  old 


36  JIM  HANDS 

lady  to  me.  "See  the  mud  ye've  tracked  across  the 
floor,  ye  clodhopper ! "  says  she,  shaking  her  fist. 

"The  floor  ain't  clean,  anyway/'  says  I,  which  was 
the  truth.  "The  house  ain't  clean,  and  it  ain't  been 
real  clean  since  you've  been  cleaning  it,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  ho!  "  says  she.  "That's  the  gratichude  I  gets 
for  washing  out  these  shirts  of  yours  —  And  she  held 
one  up  out  of  the  tub,  with  the  water  and  soap  dripping 
from  it,  and  winks  at  me. 

"Jim  don't  mean  anything,"  says  Annie.  "Don't 
let's  be  cross  all  the  time,"  she  says. 

I  seen  then  that  our  row  was  having  a  good  effect, 
and  as  luck  would  have  it,  I  remembered  then  that  I'd 
never  really  done  my  part  to  make  it  seem  like  real 
trouble  in  the  house. 

So  I  reaches  out  and  snaps  the  cloth  out  of  her  hand, 
and  I  says,  says  I,  "What's  a  shirt  to  me  after  you've 
made  a  rag  of  it  trying  to  wash  it  ?  "  And  I  grabs 
it  in  my  two  hands  and  rips  it  into  two  pieces. 

"Oh,  Jim,  Jim,"  screams  Annie,  "that  weren't 
your  shirt  at  all !  'Twas  mother's  Sunday  waist !  " 

I  seen  she  was  right,  but  I  winked  at  the  old  lady 
and  yells,  "What  do  I  care?  The  house  is  all  to  pieces 
because  of  her,"  I  yells,  and  I  rips  out  a  couple  of  care 
ful  swear  words,  being  in  jest.  "She's  a  trouble- 
making  old  lunatic,"  says  I.  "Yes,  that's  what  you 
are  —  you,  standing  up  there  at  the  tub  with  your 
mouth  always  going  wherever  your  mind  may  be  - 


JIM  HANDS  37 

if  you  have  a  mind.  I'm  tired  of  seeing  you  walking 
round  here  like  a  butterball  —  you  and  your  fat ! " 
says  I. 

The  old  lady  looks  at  me  a  minute,  and  I  expected  to 
see  her  wink  again,  but  instead  of  that  she  grabs  the 
washboard  out  of  the  water  and  tries  to  come  at  me 
right  over  the  chair. 

"I'll  show  ye!"  she  yells,  rushing  at  me,  and  you'd 
thought  a  house  was  flung  at  you,  to  see  her  come. 
She  was  red  in  the  face,  and  for  that  second  I  had  my 
doubts. 

Then  it  was  crack !  She  beat  the  washboard  on 
my  head  with  both  hands,  and  split  the  back  of  it  and 
loosened  up  the  tin  part. 

"I'll  show  ye  how  far  to  gowid  a  joke,"  she  says,  out 
of  breath,  and  smashed  at  me  again  so  it  cut  me  over 
the  eye.  I  put  up  my  hand,  and  I  seen  she'd  drawn 
blood,  and  I  ran  out  through  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs, 
with  Annie  at  my  heels,  who  was  crying  and  scared. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  I  went  down,  and  I  knew 
I'd  be  late  to  work.  I  was  kinder  shy  of  meeting  the 
old  lady,  too.  I  was  afraid  she  didn't  know  when  to 
let  well  enough  alone.  I  peeped  around  the  door  and 
seen  her  sitting  in  the  rocking-chair.  And  she  was 
holding  her  sides  with  laughter. 

"Whist!  Jim,"  she  says,  "come  in.  I  forgot  myself 
-  I  was  that  mad !  I  don't  mind  names,  but  I'm  not 
pleased  wid  mention  of  me  fat,  dear,"  she  says. 


38  JIM  HANDS 

"So  I  see  by  my  nose  here/'  says  I,  feeling  of  it. 

"How  did  Annie  take  it?  "  she  says. 

"It's  near  broken  her  heart,"  I  says.  "She  cried 
as  if  her  heart  would  break,"  I  says.  "She  says  I 
wasn't  like  her  old  Jim  any  more,  and  she  would  never 
know  her  own  mother.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  her,  poor 
girl.  She  thinks  all  her  happiness  is  gone." 

"Good !  "  says  the  old  woman.  "That's  fine.  She'll 
be  hunting  for  it  soon." 

And  it  was  so.  It  was  one  of  them  days  in  the  spring 
when  things  is  just  beginning  to  know  that  it's  time  to 
come  out  and  blink  their  eyes  in  the  sunlight,  and  when 
I  came  home  at  night,  there  was  little  Michael  and  John 
at  the  door  to  call  out  to  me. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  I  says,  putting  my 
arm  around  the  two  of  them.  ' '  What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  they  says. 

"Where's  your  mother?  "  I  says. 

"Getting  supper,"  says  Michael. 

"Where's  your  grandmother?  "  says  I. 

"She's  laying  down  upstairs,"  says  John. 

"Laying  down  !  "  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  they. 

So  I  walks  back  quick  to  the  kitchen,  and  there  was 
my  Annie  watching  a  pot  boiling  on  the  stove,  with 
her  sleeves  up  and  her  arms  in  the  wash-tub. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  I  says.  "The  doctor  gave 
you  his  orders,"  I  says. 


JIM   HANDS  39 

She  smiled  up  at  me  and  says:  "I  have  no  time  for 
you  or  them  orders,  dear.  The  children  came  back 
this  afternoon,  and  such  a  load  of  dirty  clothes  as  they 
brought !  So  I  had  to  start  washing,  and  get  out 
blankets  and  sheets  for  their  beds,  and  sweep  up  the 
house  a  little,  and  move  the  oak  bureau  back  into  the 
front  room,  and  go  to  the  butcher's  for  more  dinner, 
and  set  the  table  over,  and  mend  a  hole  in  little  John's 
stocking.  And  now  I'm  glad  to  see  you  home,  Jim. 
Have  you  had  a  hard  day  ?  " 

"No,"   says  I. 

"Nor  I,"  says  she,  "but  I  feel  like  I  might  sleep  good 
to-night.  I  believe  my  cough  is  going  away,"  she  says. 

And  at  that  minute  John  and  Michael,  the  rascals, 
chasing  each  other  through  the  parlor,  knocks  over 
something.  We  heard  it  fall  and  smash  into  pieces, 
and  the  laughing  and  running  stopped. 

"Ain't  it  nice,  Jim,  dear,"  says  she,  "to  hear  the 
children?"  she  says. 

"You  ain't  given  me  time,"  I  says,  "to  ask  how  they 
happened  to  come  back,"  I  says. 

With  that  she  comes  up  to  me  and  puts  her  wet  hand 
in  mine.  "You'll  not  scold  me,  Jim,"  says  she,  "for 
I  sent  for  them  by  telegraph,"  she  says,  "and,  you  know, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  Jim,  I  never  would  have  let 
them  go  away,"  she  says  —  "especially  the  daughter," 
she  says. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  says,  "it  was  my  fault,"  I  says.    "You 


40  JIM  HANDS 

know  I've  been  a  husband  and  father  so  long,"  I  says. 
"I  begged  for  a  little  rest  and  peace,"  I  says,  very 
sarcastic.  "Why  don't  you  speak  up,  dear,"  I  says, 
"and  tell  me  when  the  girl  is  coming  home?" 

"Well,"  says  she,  laughing,  "I've  decided  to  make 
a  sacrifice  for  you.  She's  coming  on  the  noon  train 
to-morrow." 

I  could  hardly  wait  for  it.  And  the  next  day  I  put  on 
a  new  necktie  and  brushed  up  my  old  hat.  A  kinder 
funny  feeling  had  come  over  me.  I  went  and  looked 
in  the  glass  in  the  hall.  And  I  began  to  have  queer 
notions  myself.  I  began  to  be  afraid.  I  says  to  my 
self,  "A  year  will  make  a  lot  of  difference.  She  may 
not  approve  of  the  old  man.  I  ain't  very  handsome, 
and  if  I  paid  a  hundred  dollars  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  by 
evening  it  would  have  a  thousand  wrinkles  and  the 
coat  would  hang  like  a  flannellette  nightgown,  and 
there'd  be  a  couple  of  spots  where  I  had  sat  down  on 
something.  You're  one  of  that  kind,"  I  says  to  myself . 
"And  you  don't  talk  French  or  read  Latin  in  the  even 
ings,  and  nobody'd  take  you  for  a  railroad  president  - 
not  even  after  the  rates  had  been  regulated.  Do  you 
suppose  she'll  ever  see  the  day  she'll  be  ashamed  of 
you?  Stop  thinking  so  foolish,"  I  says  in  my  own  ear. 
"This  is  the  first  time  you  worried  about  them  inward 
matters."  And  then  I  thought  if  she  didn't  always 
love  me  a  little  it  would  be  kinder  bad. 

And  I  stood  there  on  the  platform  that  noon,  and  I 


JIM  HANDS  41 

remember  the  Old  Boss's  family  —  the  Harveys  —  had 
come  to  meet  somebody,  and  all  of  them  —  the  Old  Man 
and  his  youngest  daughter  and  all  of  'em  —  smiled  and 
bowed  to  me,  and  it  seemed  vague,  like  something  you 
see  after  you've  got  a  blow  on  the  head. 

Then  I  seen  my  girl  get  off  the  train.  And  I  seen  she 
had  hatched,  and  I  seen  she  weren't  no  dull  brown  moth. 

It  was  when  we'd  got  home  and  she'd  shown  me  that 
I  was  a  good  deal  to  her  still  and  all  that  was  off  my 
mind  that  I  suddenly  noticed.  I  was  standing  on  the 
doorstep  with  my  Annie  beside  me  and  watching 
Katherine  chasing  little  John  around  the  lawn.  And 
I  says  to  Annie:  "Ain't  she  wonderful?  She's  differ 
ent!" 

But  it  was  only  after  supper  that  I  knew.  I  was 
smoking  right  here,  and  the  girl  came  in  graceful  and 
easy  and  fresh  from  the  outdoors,  and  sat  down  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table. 

"Was  it  a  dull  journey  alone?  "  I  says. 

"I  met  a  boy  that  used  to  be  in  the  high  school  when 
I  was  there,"  she  says,  "and  he  was  with  some  others  — 
from  the  college.     He  spoke  to  me,"  she  says,  picking 
up  a  book,  "and  — 

"And  what?  "I  says. 

"We  talked,"  she  says. 

"All  the  way?"  says  I. 

"Most  all  the  way,"  she  says,  and  with  that  I  put 
down  the  Argus  and  leaned  forward. 


42  JIM  HANDS 

"Who  was  the  young  man?  "  I  says. 

At  that  she  laughed  one  of  them  little  wriggling 
laughs  that  has  made  many  a  lad  tell  his  judgment  to 
go  on  about  its  business.  "Don't  worry,"  she  says,  "I 
have  been  cured  of  all  the  foolish  talk  that  you  used 
to  complain  of,"  she  says,  putting  her  soft  hand  on  mine. 
"We  had  a  very  interesting  and  sensible  conversation," 
says  she. 

"Who  was  the  young  man?  "  I  says  again. 

"Why,  it  was  Robert  Harvey,"  she  says. 

"The  Boss's  son !  "  says  I,  kinder  nervous. 

"He  is  very  nice,"  she  says  quietly,  and  she  laughed. 
And  then  I  seen  a  look  come  into  her  face.  It  was 
just  a  flicker,  and  I  knew  she  weren't  a  little  girl 
any  more. 


CHAPTER   V 

ROBERT  HARVEY  is  the  only  boy  the  Old  Boss  has  got. 
He'd  been  away  at  St.  John's  School  down  at  the  Capital, 
and  then  to  college,  and  I  couldn't  remember  just  what 
kind  of  a  boy  he  was.  All  I  could  remember  about  him 
was  when  he  was  a  youngster  in  our  town  high  school, 
and  that  he  was  kinder  thin  and  girlish-looking.  I 
remembered  one  day*  seeing  him  playing  football  on 
the  common  then,  and  how  a  big  fellow  named  Jenks, 
the  undertaker's  son,  flung  himself  on  to  him,  and  the 
,i>oy's  head  struck  on  a  gravel  path.  You  know  how 
them  pictures  stick  in  your  mind.  I  thought  they 
had  killed  him,  but  he  got  up  and  shook  his  head  and 
went  on  playing  —  blind.  You'd  thought  he  had  the 
fighting  spirit  of  a  mink.  It  looked  funny,  because  he 
had  a  face  like  a  woman,  with  soft  dark  hair  and  pink 
complexion,  like  the  Boss's  youngest  daughter,  Auna. 

The  Old  Boss  was  always  talking  about  that  boy.  I 
guess  the  factory  and  money  and  maybe  eyesight  weren't 
nothing  compared  with  that  boy  he  used  to  talk  about. 
He  used  to  mention  him  to  me  and  tell  me  he  was  still 
playing  football  in  college  and  working  on  the  second 
team,  I  think  he  said ;  for  I  remember  the  Boss  said  the 
boy  was  too  light  in  weight  to  do  much,  and  was  just 

43 


44  JIM  HANDS 

playing  like  a  dead  game  sport  without  a  chance  for 
cups  or  pins  or  glory.  The  Old  Boss  used  to  talk  to 
me  a  little  closer  than  the  other  men.  And  so  it  was 
a  surprise  to  me  the  next  week  when  I  seen  Robert 
Harvey. 

He  was  down  on  Main  Street  with  a  tennis  racket 
and  a  couple  of  young  girls  —  friends  of  his  sisters, 
they  were,  and  you  could  see  they  had  money  and 
belonged  to  the  kind  of  people  that  the  Boss's  family 
liked  to  travel  with. 

He  had  grown  up  a  good  deal.  He  weren't  very 
handsome,  either,  but  he  had  a  steady  eye  and  one  of 
them  gaits  as  he  walked  that  you  hardly  ever  see  ex 
cept  in  good  honest  feet.  He  had  grown  strong,  and 
yet  there  still  was  that  look  of  devilment  in  his  face, 
with  them  blue  eyes  and  brown  skin  and  soft  hair 
underneath  his  hat. 

It  frightened  me.  Ain't  that  funny?  The  minute 
I  seen  him  laughing  and  talking  with  them  girls  I  thought 
of  the  funny  little  look  in  Katherine's  face,  and  I  found 
myself  trying  to  think  out  what  the  big  gap  was  be 
tween  the  Old  Boss  and  me,  and  his  family  and  mine. 
I  thought  of  money.  They  had  a  lot  of  it.  And  I 
thought  of  name.  And  they  had  that.  And  I  guess 
for  the  first  time  I  felt  sore  about  it,  and  begun  to  won 
der  what  the  difference  was.  I  must  have  been  a  fool. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  it  seemed  to  me  that  this 
young  Bob  Harvey,  with  all  he  had,  weren't  good 


JIM  HANDS  45 

enough  for  my  girl.  There  weren't  none  of  Jem  good 
enough  for  her.  "And  after  all,"  I  says  to  myself, 
"it's  all  a  matter  of  nothing,"  I  says,  as  I  was  going 
into  Eddie  Terhew's  hardware  store  after  a  couple  of 
hinges  for  Annie's  new  china  closet.  "Just  a  talk  on 
a  train,"  I  says  to  myself,  "and  just  a  chat  or  two  on 
Main  Street,"  I  says,  "and  just  because  he  stopped  at 
my  barn  on  his  way  home  from  rabbit -hunting,  it  don' 
mean  anything,"  I  says. 

I  suppose  the  real  truth  come  to  me  because  of  that 
affair  with  Jerry  Pollock.  Ain't  it  funny  how  one 
thing  leads  to  another?  Fellers  with  them  stoop 
shoulders  like  Jerry's  is  apt  to  be  a  good  deal  like  him, 
but  Jerry  is  more  so  than  any  of  'em. 

What  I  mean  is  that  Jerry  was  one  of  these  good, 
quiet,  gentle  fellers  who  went  to  a  church,  though  not 
to  Father  Ryan's,  and  was  always  wondering  whether 
the  lightning  was  going  to  strike  his  house,  and  half 
expecting  the  cutworms  was  going  to  ruin  his  squashes, 
and  fearing  every  sore  throat  was  going  to  be  diphtheria 
sure,  and  had  a  wife  with  a  kind  of  square  jaw,  easy- 
hung,  and  bony  hands  and  a  dry  skin.  You  know 
them  fellers  —  them  good  old  family  horses  ? 

Jerry  Pollock  never  had  but  one  vacation  in  his  life. 
I  don't  mean  going  away  from  work  to  a  beach  and 
getting  so  sunburned  you  can't  laugh  without  cracking 
your  ear,  and  buying  picture-frames  made  of  sea-shells 
for  your  aunts,  and  having  the  kids  get  stung  by  mos- 


46  JIM  HANDS 

quitoes  till  they  look  just  the  way  cracker  crumbs  in 
the  bed  feels.  You'll  see  what  I  mean  when  I  tell  you. 
And  great  guns !  it  was  going  some. 

You  never  knew  Jerry  the  way  I  did  for  more'n  ten 
years.  He  was  right  at  the  next  bench  to  me  when  I 
first  come  to  work  for  the  Old  Boss,  and  before  I  thought 
I'd  ever  be  urged  along  by  my  Annie  and  get  to  be  fore 
man  of  the  room.  So  I  knew  him  on  all  sides,  at  the 
factory  and  also  at  home,  because  that's  his  house 
just  back  of  mine.  It  would  make  you  laugh  to  see 
him  come  running  out  of  that  little  barn  when  his  wife 
called  him,  or  maybe  stand  up  in  front  of  her  and  twirl 
his  hat  like  a  boy  when  she  was  telling  him  to  hurry 
up  and  go  downtown  for  a  roll  of  ribbon  for  her  or  a 
bottle  of  patent  medicine.  She  was  some  woman ! 

Yes,  sir,  she  was !  I  don't  mean  he  wasn't  fond  of 
her;  that  ain't  so.  He'd  probably  have  done  things 
for  her,  even  if  he  had  his  own  choice,  though  maybe 
not  so  quick.  And  anyhow,  there  was  a  lot  to  respect 
about  her.  She  looked  kinder  severe  and  the  like  of 
that,  but  I  noticed  she  made  jelly  to  give  away  when 
anybody  was  sick ;  and  the  Clancy  family,  that  was  left 
when  their  old  man  was  sent  away  for  breaking  and 
entering  the  depot,  could  tell  you  that  them  lines 
running  up  from  her  nose  into  her  forehead  give  her 
heart  a  bad  name  that  weren't  deserved.  And  then, 
besides,  there  ain't  nothing  Mrs.  Pollock  didn't  do  well. 
You  know  there  are  women  like  that  —  them  that 


JIM   HANDS  47 

have  good  luck  with  potted  plants  and  popovers  and 
hens  and  them  embroidery  sales  and  strawberry 
festivals  that  the  Protestant  churches  has.  But  at 
that  her  voice  sounded  like  a  " no-smoking"  sign  looks, 
and  she  had  them  gray  eyes. 

Jerry  was  the  kind  of  a  husband  them  women  have. 
He  was  a  good  worker  at  the  factory  here,  and  would 
say  "My  goodness!"  instead  of  some  full-mouthed 
word,  and  voted  the  Republican  ticket  because  it  seemed 
to  him  respectable,  but  wouldn't  discuss  politics  much, 
and  got  awful  mad  and  ran  his  fingers  around  his  collar 
when  he  did.  You  know  how  them  Republicans  are. 
He  thought  a  good  deal  of  the  heathen  in  India  and 
missionaries,  and  never  went  to  them  one-night-stand 
;shows  that  come  to  a  little  factory  town  like  this,  and 
wore  black  neckties  and  square-toed  shoes,  and  carried 
a  mustache  comb  in  his  vest  pocket.  He  didn't  ever 
play  cards,  and  he  said  baseball  oughter  be  stopped 
because  the  boys  bet  on  it  and  lost  their  money,  and  I 
guess  he  might  have  smoked  two  cigars  a  year  —  one 
on  Christmas,  and  the  other  the  day  his  wife  went  down 
to  her  sister's  funeral  or  something. 

They  were  thrifty  —  them  two.  Once  in  a  while, 
maybe,  Jerry  would  buy  you  a  soda-water  if  he  met  you 
looking  bust  and  thirsty  in  front  of  the  drug  store. 
But  you  could  see  that,  as  they  say,  he  sorter  made  an 
occasion  of  it.  He'd  act  kinder  sly  and  put  his  fore 
finger  up  beside  the  mole  on  his  nose  or  maybe  rub  his 


48  JIM  HANDS 

hands  together  and  make  a  joke  and  say,  "It's  awful 
hot,  Jim,  and  a  man  that's  done  a  good  day's  work 
oughter  give  himself  and  his  friend  a  chance  to  taste 
the  taste  of  something." 

"Sweetened  wind?"  you'd  say.  And  then  he'd 
laugh  and  rub  his  hands  again  and  go  and  study  them 
nickle-plated  faucets  to  see  what  flavor  he'd  have,  and 
then  all  the  time  he  was  drinking  he'd  keep  looking  out 
over  his  glass  just  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  being  caught 
by  Mrs.  Pollock;  and  when  he'd  set  the  expense  down 
in  a  little  notebook,  he'd  sigh  as  if  it  hurt  him,  and 
next  day  he'd  mention  the  soda  to  you.  He'd  say, 
"Weren't  that  a  nice  soda  we  had?"  just  as  if  he  didn't 
want  you  to  forget  it.  You'd  never  thought  he'd  go 
through  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you  —  not  a  feller  like 
that! 

It  all  come  about  because  one  hot  night  along  that 
September,  Ben  Joline,  who's  bottoming  foreman,  was 
setting  down  in  one  of  them  chairs  on  the  sidewalk 
outside  the  Phenix  Hotel.  If  he  hadn't  been  there 
without  anything  to  do  and  looking  idle  and  good- 
natured,  Jerry  Pollock  would  always  have  been  the  same 
old  Jerry  Pollock.  But  Ben  sat  there  and  a  feller  sat 
there  too,  leaning  back  up  against  the  wall  and  looking 
at  people  who  passed,  and  chewing  a  toothpick  the  way 
you  do  when  you're  in  a  strange  town. 

This  second  feller,  Ben  says,  was  a  travelling  man  for 
a  collar  concern,  and  he  certainly  was  some  dresser. 


JIM  HANDS  49 

He  had  a  fancy  band  on  his  straw  hat  and  a  changeable 
silk  necktie  and  a  big  pin  and  a  suit  of  clothes  with  a 
big  check  in  it.  And  it  weren't  the  check  so  much  as 
the  colors.  Maybe  you'd  call  'em  wall-paper  colors. 
They  was  something  you  could  see  at  night. 

By  and  by,  when  a  good  many  stores  had  closed  up 
and  there  weren't  many  people  passing  any  more,  the 
stranger  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  black  mustache 
and  he  says,  "I  feel  just  like  sitting  in  a  game  of  poker," 
says  he.  It  would  have  been  all  right  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  fact  that  just  as  he  said  it,  a  big  fat  feller 
come  out  the  screen  door  of  the  hotel.  He  was  a  jolly- 
looking  feller  —  one  of  them  that  kinder  seems  to  love 
everybody  and  has  a  big  voice  and  knows  a  lot  of  funny 
stories.  He  didn't  look  like  any  harm  to  nobody. 
And  he  heard  the  remark  that  was  passed,  and  give  one 
of  them  fat  men's  gurgles  that  sounds  like  water  in 
a  steam  radiator.  "Sic  semper  tyrannis,"  he  says, 
"and  also  a  couple  of  good  erat  demonstrandums," 
he  says.  "No  sooner  said  than  done,"  he  says.  "If 
you  two  gentlemen  woulpl  like  to  play,"  he  says,  "I'll 
wake  up  a  feller  I  know  slightly  who's  gone  to  bed  in 
room  thirty-two,"  says  he. 

The  first  I  knew  about  it  was  Saturday  afternoon, 
the  next  day.  Jerry  Pollock  and  his  wife  had  stopped 
in  when  they  was  going  by  our  house,  and  was  setting 
on  our  front  steps,  and  my  Annie  had  made  'em  some 
lemonade.  And  as  we  was  setting  there,  the  old  feller 


50  JIM  HANDS 

that  drives  the  bus  for  the  Phenix  Hotel  went  by,  and 
he  leaned  over  the  gate  and  says,  "If  either  of  you  wants 
a  suit  of  clothes  that's  pretty  swell,  you  can  buy  one 
very  cheap  from  a  travelling  man  down  at  the  hotel. 
He's  trying  to  raise  the  money  to  pay  his  hotel  bill," 
he  says. 

I  knew  Jerry  and  maybe  old  lady  Pollock  would 
sit  up  when  they  heard  talk  about  buying  something 
cheap. 

"Huh,"  says  Jerry,  rubbing  that  pointed  chin  of 
his,  "what  kind  of  a  suit  is  it?" 

"It's  a  checked  suit;  it's  almost  new,"  says  the  feller, 
"and  about  your  size,"  he  says,  squinting  one  eye  as 
if  he  was  fitting  it  onto  Jerry.  "Though  it  might  be 
a  little  late  around  the  shoulders,"  he  says. 

At  that  I  seen  them  thrifty  looks  on  Mrs.  Pollock's 
face. 

"It  might  be  a  bargain,"  she  says.  "I  think  you 
oughter  see  it,  anyway,  Jerry,"  she  says.  "Could  the 
suit  be  worn  as  best  —  to  church?"  she  says. 

"Well,"  says  the  bus  driver,  "I  could  recommend  it 
for  most  anything  but  that,"  he  says.  "I  don't  know 
just  how  to  tell  you,"  he  says,  "except  to  say  that  in 
church  it  might  look  as  if  it  had  been  worn  right  through 
from  Saturday  night,"  he  says,  "and  give  the  wrong 
impression,"  he  says. 

But  even  after  he'd  gone,  you  could  see  that  Jerry 
and  his  wife  was  thinking  about  the  suit,  and  then 


JIM  HANDS  51 

Monday  at  the  factory  when  it  got  to  be  noon  hour, 
Jerry  come  over  to  me  and  he  says,  "Well,  Jim,  the 
travelling  man  has  left  town,"  he  says. 

"You  don't  say,"  says  I.     "You  bought  the  suit?'' 

"Yes,"  says  Jerry.  "I  hope  you  won't  say  nothing 
to  anybody  about  it,"  he  says,  "for,  of  course,  it's 
second-hand,"  says  he.  "Yes,"  he  says,  "it's  fine 
goods,"  he  says.  "I  felt  of  it  careful,"  he  says,  "and 
tried  it  on,"  he  says.  "The  feller's  name  was  Todd," 
he  says,  "and  he  showed  me  a  tag  on  the  collar  all 
worked  in  yellow  silk,  and  told  me  the  fit  was  just 
right ;  that  I  looked  like  a  man  with  a  roll  in  my  pocket 
big  enough  to  choke  a  horse,  and  that  when  I  walked 
out  with  that  suit,  people  would  forget  that  Main  Street 
wasn't  Broadway,"  he  says.  "And  Martha  says  I'd 
better  wear  it  for  everyday,"  says  he. 

So  the  next  morning  he  come  down  to  the  factory 
with  it.  He  was  one  of  the  men  that  change  into  their 
work  clothes  after  they  get  into  the  coat  room,  and  when 
he  come  in  there  was  certainly  some  excitement ! 

Dave  Pierson  says  to  him,  "Jerry,  in  spite  of  your 
gray  hairs,  I'm  going  to  tell  it  to  you  straight  —  you 
look  like  a  real  sport.  You  look  like  a  promoter,"  he 
says. 

"It's  sure  true,"  says  Ed  Welch,  "you  look  like  a 
man  that  sits  in  a  box  on  the  grand  stand  and  talks 
over  the  edge  to  the  book-maker's  runners,"  he  says. 
"But  that  black  necktie  is  all  wrong,"  says  he.  "It's 


52  JIM  HANDS 

like  a  dead  fly  in  a  dish  of  ice-cream,"  he  says.  "  You'll 
certainly  have  to  get  a  tie  to  go  with  the  suit,"  he  says. 

Jerry  was  pleased,  and  then  he  kinder  scratched  his 
gray  hairs  and  felt  of  his  black  tie  and  sighed,  and  all 
day  there  was  somebody  telling  him  they'd  seen  him 
come  in  with  his  new  suit,  and  that  he  looked  just  like 
December  twenty-fifth,  or  like  a  mine-owner,  or  a  man 
who  owned  a  string  of  horses,  or  a  New  York  hotel,  and 
the  like  of  that.  So  the  next  day  when  he  come  down 
he  was  wearing  a  new  tie  he'd  bought  at  the  New  York 
Emporium.  And  the  tie  sounded  a  good  deal  like  the 
noise  you  make  when  you  hammer  iron  pipe. 

The  suit  was  certainly  getting  in  its  work  on  Jerry. 
Wearing  that  suit,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  like 
keeping  bad  company.  And  he  liked  to  have  people 
see  it  and  how  nice  it  fitted  him,  and  Saturday  he  went 
out  to  the  ball-game,  though  I  guess  his  Martha  didn't 
know  it,  and  when  the  seventh  inning  come  around 
and  the  score  was  near  tied,  he  went  with  them  eager 
fellers  out  back  of  third  base,  and  even  hollered  and 
abused  the  pitcher  of  the  Turner's  Falls  team.  And 
somebody  said  he  lost  fifty  cents  on  the  game.  Maybe 
he  did,  for  he  seemed  to  have  remorse  the  next  day. 
He  was  kinder  solemn  and  thoughtful. 

But  it  didn't  last  long.  A  few  days  later  in  the  even 
ing  I  seen  him  in  his  suit  in  the  pool-room  at  the  back 
of  the  barber's  shop.  He  was  sitting  in  a  chair  in  front 
of  the  ball-rack,  laughing  and  talking  and  kinder  wrig- 


JIM  HANDS  .       53 

gling  them  stoop  shoulders  of  his,  and  his  eyes  was  bright 
and  shiny,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  wished  he  knew  enough 
about  playing  to  go  into  the  game  for  a  quarter  a  cue. 

"I  thought  you  said  you  was  reading  a  book  called 
the  'Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Something  Empire,'"  I  says; 
"  reading  evenings,"  I  says. 

"Well,  I  am,"  he  says,  "only  in  a  dull  little  town 
like  this,"  he  says,  "a  man  can't  stay  at  home  all  the 
time  and  get  narrow  and  old-fashioned  and  out  of  the 
run  of  things,"  he  says.  "You  know  I  don't  drink," 
he  says,  smoothing  down  his  trousers  and  shaking  his 
legs  to  make  'em  fall  right.  "And  so  I  miss  that 
relaxation,"  he  says,  kinder  sighing.  "But  come  over 
to  the  drug  store,  Jim,"  he  says,  "and  have  a  glass 
of  flavored  bubbles,"  he  says.  And  when  we  gets 
over  there,  he  kinder  swings  one  leg  over  the  other, 
careless,  and  says  to  Joe,  "Give  us  a  couple  of  plates 
of  sasparilla  water,"  he  says. 

I  looked  at  the  suit  then,  and  I  looked  at  it  again  the 
next  day.  I  kinder  made  up  my  mind  that  any  man 
who  wears  a  uniform  feels  like  a  brave  soldier.  I 
thought  of  it  when  I  heard  some  feller  going  by  under 
the  wash-room  winder  trip  on  a  stone  or  something,  and 
rip  out  one  of  them  tainted  words.  I  threw  the  soap 
into  the  sink  and  looked  out  and  I  seen  the  suit.  I  says 
to  myself,  "That  weren't  Jerry  talking,  that  was  them 
checks." 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  know  what  would  have 


54  JIM  HANDS 

become  of  him  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  grand  wind-up 
that  come  and  broke  the  spell. 

I  remember  about  the  last  of  September  the  factory 
closed  down  one  Friday  and  Saturday  because  there  was 
a  shift  in  the  line  of  goods  we  were  making,  and  they 
had  to  get  in  new  lasts  and  dies  and  the  like  of  that. 
It's  funny  how  restless  you  feel  when  you  ain't  at  work 
on  one  of  the  regular  days,  and  how  you  keep  starting 
inside  with  the  feeling  that  you  oughter  be  down  at 
the  factory,  and  then  when  you  get  over  that,  you 
wonder  what  you'll  do  in  the  afternoon.  Sometimes 
I  even  wish  that  I  could  go  down  to  work  the  same  as 
ever.  It  seems  as  if  there' d  be  a  good  deal  of  fun  in  it. 
And  I  think  that  maybe  there's  a  whole  lot  of  excite 
ment  in  what  folks  call  drudgery,  after  all. 

Anyhow,  Saturday  morning  I'd  fed  the  horses  and 
my  Annie  had  come  out  to  the  back  door  with  little 
Mike  pulling  at  her  apron  to  tell  me  breakfast  was  ready, 
when  I  seen  Jerry  Pollock  coming  across  that  patch  he 
had  planted  with  potatoes,  and  I  seen  him  wave  his  hand 
to  me,  and  when  he  come  up  you  could  see  he  was  all 
stirred  up  over  something. 

"Jim,"  he  says,  "the  worm  has  turned!"  he  says. 
"You  know  the  Harrington  Fair  and  Cattle  Show?" 
he  says.  "Has  a  midway,"  he  says,  winking  wicked, 
"and  horse-races  and  balloon  ascension  with  triple 
parachute  drop,"  he  says.  "And  this  is  the  big  day," 
he  says. 


JIM  HANDS  55 

"I  said  to  Martha  we'd  take  you  and  Mrs.  Hands  and 
go.  I  said  yes  and  she  said  no.  She  said  no  at  five 
o'clock  this  morning." 

"It's  too  bad/'  I  says,  "if  you  set  your  heart  on 
it." 

" What's  too  bad?"  he  says,  sticking  out  his  nar 
row  chest.  "I  guess  you  don't  understand.  7  said  we 
was  going,"  says  he. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  says;  "she  didn't  want  to 
spend  the  money,"  he  says,  smiling  very  conceited. 
"But  she's  resigned  to  it  now,"  he  says.  "And  I'm 
going  to  borrow  that  Jordan  carryall  to  hitch  my  horse 
into,  and  go  home  and  put  on  some  clothes,  and  then 
by  that  time  you'll  be  ready  ?  "  he  says.  And  he  stepped 
up  close  as  if  somebody  was  listening  up  in  the  trees, 
and  he  whispers,  "Yesterday  I  got  paid  a  hundred 
dollars  on  that  Smith  mortgage.  I'm  going  to  carry 
the  money  to-day,  Jim,"  he  says.  "It's  a  kinder  com 
fort  to  feel  a  roll  in  your  pocket  that  would  choke  a 
horse,"  he  says,  using  the  words  of  the  collar  drummer. 
"It  gives  you  a  peculiar  assurance,"  he  says,  waving 
his  hand  at  me  as  he  went  off.  "Not  that  I  mean  to 
spend  any  of  it,"  he  says. 

With  that  I  went  to  the  back  door  and  had  a  talk 
with  Annie.  I  hadn't  been  for  two  or  three  years,  and 
my  Annie  was  glad  of  the  drive,  and  there's  always 
something  of  the  girl  in  her.  I  remember  she  come 
and  put  her  hands  on  my  shoulder  when  I  was  drinking 


56  JIM  HANDS 

my  coffee  and  she  says,  "The  only  thing  I'm  sorry  foi 
is  that  we  didn't  think  in  time  so's  we  could  have  gone 
alone  —  just  you  and  I." 

"And  Katherine  ?  "  I  says,  looking  at  the  daughter. 

"Oh,  no,"  says  she.  "Just  you  and  mother,"  she 
says.  "For  I  know  if  I  was  married,"  says  she,  "mar 
ried  the  way  I'd  want  to  be,  I'd  like  sometimes  to  be 
all  alone  with  him,  —  him  with  a  big  H,"  she  says, 
laughing.  "Besides,"  she  says,  "it's  best  to  break 
up  in  twos,  after  all,"  she  says.  And  I  didn't  know 
then  what  it  was  she  had  on  her  mind. 

It  was  a  fine  day  with  a  cool  bite  in  the  air  and  sunny, 
and  you  know  how  nice  a  fair-ground  looks  on  that 
kind  of  a  day,  with  white  tents  and  a  man  selling  blue 
tickets,  and  the  red  cloth  they  use  at  cane-toss  games, 
and  the  sound  of  barkers  and  a  cloud  of  dust  on  the 
race  track,  and  the  music  of  the  band  that  comes  louder 
or  fades  away  according  to  the  shift  of  the  breeze,  and 
cows  hollering  in  them  long  sheds,  and  crazy-quilts  hung 
around  the  door  of  the  exposition  building,  and  the 
grand  stand  filled  up  with  people  so's  it  looks  like  the 
top  of  a  basket  of  mixed  berries,  some  red  and  some 
blue  and  some  black  or  yellow.  And  you  can  hear 
the  gong  on  the  judge's  stand,  and  maybe  see  a  feller 
holding  a  couple  of  children  by  the  hand  and  looking 
up  at  the  picture  of  a  wild  man  all  in  bright  colors  on 
a  canvas,  or  maybe  two  women  standing  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  path  between  them  rows  of  waffle  and 


JIM  HANDS  57 

sausage  and  lemonade  concessions,  quarrelling  and  mak 
ing  the  crowd  walk  one  side  or  the  other. 

It  was  right  there  that  Jerry  got  his  full  enjoyment. 
He  rung  a  cane  and  carried  it  kinder  sheepish  just  the 
way  I'd  feel  smoking  a  cigarette,  but  you  could  tell 
he  felt  first-rate  in  that  suit,  and  when  his  wife  and  my 
Annie  went  over  to  the  big  indoor  exhibit,  he  pulled 
out  the  handkerchief  his  wife  had  made  him  stick 
around  his  collar,  and  he  went  up  one  side  of  the  mid 
way,  wanting  to  see  everything,  and  invited  me  in  to 
see  the  Old  Plantation  show  with  fourteen  genuine 
old-time  darky  dancers  and  singers  of  negro  melodies, 
as  it  said,  but  I  didn't  think  the  show  was  half  as 
good  as  the  sample  they  gave  outside  to  make  you  want 
,to  see  more.  And  then  he  stopped  to  see  the  Japanese 
rolling-ball  game,  and  the  girl  with  bleached  hair  and 
a  dirty  blue  kimona  that  was  running  it  picked  him 
right  out  and  bowed  and  hollers  in  a  voice  just  like  a 
man's:  "Here's  a  man  that's  a  good  old  scout.  He's 
a  sport,  he  is.  He'll  take  a  chance,"  she  says,  like  that. 
"It  can't  make  you  or  break  you,  mister.  You  get  a 
present  in  any  case  —  yes,  sir.  You  bet  I  can  size  people 
up.  It's  a  dime,  mister  —  what's  a  dime  to  a  man  of 
your  calibre?" 

So  Jerry  smiled.  "Here's  a  half  a  dollar!  "  he  says, 
careless.  "Give  me  them  balls,"  he  says.  But  he 
didn't  win  anything,  and  he  looked  kinder  disappointed, 
and  felt  of  his  roll  of  money  to  see  if  it  was  still  there, 
and  got  a  touch  of  remorse. 


58  JIM  HANDS 

Maybe  she  seen  him;  anyhow  she  says,  "Lean  over 
here,"  says  she,  confidential.  "I  know  this  game  ain't 
the  real  thing.  But  why  don't  you  two  gents  walk 
right  around  this  booth?  There's  a  little  harmless 
diversion  going  on  there.  You  bet  I  can  size  up  a  sport 
when  I  see  him.  There's  something  about  you- 
she  says  to  him. 

At  that  you  could  see  that  Jerry  felt  more  devilish 
than  ever  in  that  suit.  "Come  on,  Jim,"  he  says, 
"let's  investigate.  When  things  is  going  on,  I  want  to 
be  in  'em.  That's  me !  "  he  says,  and  off  he  started. 

It  weren't  more  than  a  step  or  two,  and  when  I  looked 
around  the  corner  I  seen  ten  or  a  dozen  men  around  a 
feller  with  a  little  stand.  I  knew  in  a  minute  it  weren't 
nothing  but  the  same  old  shell-game,  only  this  feller 
had  four  of  them  heavy  china  cups  instead  of  shells, 
and  lumps  of  sugar  instead  of  peas.  One  of  the  men 
who  was  betting  won  just  as  we  got  there,  and  Jerry's 
eyes  stuck  out  to  see  the  four  yellow-back  bills  counted 
out  to  him. 

"Don't  you  be  a  fool,"  I  says  to  him,  easy. 

"A  fool?"  he  says,  kinder  mad.  "No,  I  ain't!  I 
wouldn't  play  this  game ;  it's  wrong ;  but  I'm  going  to 
watch !  I  bet  I  could  see  closer  than  some,"  he  says, 
whispering  and  pushing  his  way  up  close  to  the  table. 
The  feller  who  was  running  the  game  held  his  hand 
up  in  the  air  to  shake  his  cuffs  way  up  his  arm,  and  he 
felt  of  a  diamond  pin  in  his  tie  and  pulled  his  black 


JIM  HANDS  59 

mustache  and  kinder  looked  at  Jerry  with  one  eye  as 
if  he  was  sad  and  weary  about  something. 

"Well,  this  is  a  bad  day  for  me,"  says  the  feller. 
"Yes,  gents,  a  bad  day.  I've  lost  heavy  to-day." 
And  then  he  took  one  lump  of  sugar  and  began  to  shift 
it  under  first  one  cup  and  then  another,  and  finally 
he  put  it  under  one  of  the  cups  on  the  right  and  he  says, 
"Well,  gents,  you've  seen  the  lump.  Maybe  you  know 
where  it  is.  Maybe  you  don't.  I  ain't  saying  whether 
you  do  or  don't.  I'm  just  offering  to  bet  one  dollar, 
five  dollars,  ten  dollars,  it's  under  this  here  cup,"  he 
says,  and  he  put  his  hand  on  the  cup  further  to  the  left. 
You  oughter  seen  Jerry's  eyes! 

He  leans  close  to  me  and  he  whispers,  "Jim,  I've 
got  him.  The  sugar  has  fallen  out  and  it's  rolled 
right  under  my  hand ! "  And  he  turned  to  the  feller 
and  pulled  out  a  ten-dollar  bill  and  laid  it  down,  and 
says,  with  his  voice  shaking,  "I  bet  it  ain't  under  any 
cup." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you ? "  says  the  feller,  looking  sadder 
and  sleepier  than  ever.  "Well,  anybody  else?"  he 
says.  "No?  Well,"  he  says,  lifting  the  left-hand  cup, 
"there's  the  sugar !  ': 

It  was,  sure  enough  !  Jerry's  mouth  was  open.  His 
eyes  was  red,  and  he  lifted  his  hand  and  showed  another 
lump  under  it.  But  the  feller  just  pretended  to  be  mad. 

"What  kinder  monkey-shines  are  you  trying?"  he 
says.  "This  game  is  straight,  and  if  you  can't  come 


60  JIM  HANDS 

around  here  without  bringing  a  lump  of  sugar  to  fool 
me  and  maybe  cheat  somebody  else,  don't  come  at  all/' 
he  says.  "  I  caught  you/'  he  says,  sticking  Jerry's 
bill  into  his  pocket.  "You  must  think  I'm  a  mark!" 
he  says. 

"I  didn't  bring  the  lump.  It  rolled  under  my  hand 
just  now/'  says  Jerry,  looking  surprised  and  mad  and 
dizzy.  And  most  everybody  laughed.  So  Jerry  walked 
off,  and  when  he'd  got  around  the  corner  he  kinder 
gasped  like  a  feller  that  goes  through  the  ice  in  the 
winter-time.  You  could  see  he  was  crazy  about  losing 
the  ten,  and  mad  and  hurt  in  the  pride  all  at  once. 

"Ten  dollars!"  he  says,  holding  on  to  my  coat,  an 
then  he  says,  "I  saw  how  he  did  it.  By  thunder! 
I've  got  a  good  mind  to  go  back  and  just  clean  him  out. 
If  I  wasn't  afraid  of  losing,  I'd  do  it,  for  he  can't  fool  me. 
I've  seen  how  he  does  it." 

"Jerry,"  I  says,  "you're  older  than  I  am;  yououghter 
know  better.  Nobody  stands  a  show  with  that  feller. 
You  can't  win  unless  he  wants  to  have  you  win.  The 
quicker  you  bet,  the  quicker  you  lose.  That's  all," 
I  says. 

"Everybody's  got  a  right  to  their  own  opinion,"  he 
says,  kinder  sour,  and  then  we  had  to  go  and  meet  Annie 
and  Mrs.  Pollock  at  the  entrance  to  the  grand  stand, 
and  I  bought  some  seats,  and  we  picked  out  the  horses 
we  thought  would  win,  and  both  women  always  chose 
any  horse  that  was  jet  black.  They  look  faster  to 


JIM  HANDS  61 

women.  And  they  laughed  and  had  a  good  time,  but 
Jerry  was  sullen  and  sore,  and  I  guess  he  even  forgot 
about  his  checked  suit. 

And  it  was  while  we  was  sitting  there  that  Annie 
grabbed  my  arm  and  pressed  it  with  them  busy  fingers 
of  hers. 

"Look,  Jim!"  she  whispers.  "Who  is  that  sitting 
down  there  in  that  yellow  dog-cart  ?  "  she  says,  and  I 
seen  her  turn  color  a  little. 

I  looked  where  she  was  pointing.  It  was  down  where 
carriages  drive  up  near  the  whitewashed  fence  to  watch 
the  races.  And  there  I  seen  the  Boss's  horse  with  her 
ears  pricked  up,  and  behind  her  there  sat  the  boy  and 
my  girl.  Maybe  it  was  just  as  luck  would  have  it. 
They  weren't  looking  at  the  race  at  all.  It  gave  me  a 
shock.  They  was  looking  at  each  other.  And  right 
then  I  knew  misfortune  had  come  to  us.  I  knew  it  as 
well  as  if  a  voice  had  told  me. 


CHAPTER   VI 

I  SUPPOSE  the  thing  that  woke  me  up  was  the  voice  of 
Mrs.  Pollock.  "I  wonder  where  Jerry  went,"  she  says. 
"  Probably  to  get  some  peanuts.  He's  so  thoughtful," 
she  says. 

But  I  didn't  stop  to  hear.  I  felt  like  a  warden  that 
has  forgot  to  lock  the  jail,  and  I  jumped  up  and  says, 
"I'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes,"  and  I  ran  down  the 
steps  and  around  the  race-track  fence,  back  to  where  the 
tents  and  booths  were,  and  I  went  in  around  the  Japanese 
rolling-ball  game,  and  when  I  got  a  first  look  I  knew  it 
was  too  late. 

There  was  Jerry  with  his  hat  off  and  his  eyes  wild  and 
red  and  his  breath  coming  short  and  a  half-dozen  men 
laughing  at  him. 

He  was  talking  to  the  feller  that  run  the  cup  and 
sugar  game.  "You  cheat!"  he  says.  "You  robbed 
me,"  he  says,  "a  hundred  dollars  and  more !"  he  says. 
"Give  it  back,"  he  says,  "or  I'll  complain  of  you,"  says 
he. 

"On  your  way ! "  says  the  feller.  "You  want  me  to 
lose  all  the  time?"  he  says.  "Is  that  it?"  says  he. 
"Now  take  it  from  me,"  he  says,  pointing  with  his  finger. 

62 


JIM  HANDS  63 

"You  move  on!  Don't  stay  around  here  disturbing 
these  gentlemen.  Where'd  you  hire  that  checked  suit  ?  " 
he  says. 

I  could  see  I'd  better  take  Jerry  away.  So  I  got  him 
by  the  arm,  and  he  called  me  some  hot  names,  but  he 
came  with  me  just  the  same,  and  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  cry,  he  was  that  frightened.  "I  promised  to  buy  a 
runabout  for  Martha  with  that  money.  She's  been 
looking  forward  to  it  for  two  years,"  he  says. 

I  felt  sorry  for  him. 

Finally  he  says,  "Jim,  will  you  tell  my  wife  for  me  ?  " 
he  says,  grabbing  my  arm.  "You  don't  know  how 
much  I'd  appreciate  it,"  says  he.  "Somehow  I  believe 
it  would  save  talk,"  he  says.  "I've  got  to  tell  her. 
She  knew  I  had  the  money.  I  can't  lie  to  her.  You 
tell  her,  Jim.  If  you'll  do  that,  I'll  go  down  and  harness 
the  horse  and  never  ask  you  to  do  a  thing,"  says  he. 
"Tell  it  all,"  says  he.  "Everything  you  tell  will  save  me 
a  couple  of  days  of  talk,"  says  he. 

I'm  a  good-natured  fool,  I  guess.  Anyhow,  I  told  him 
to  go  hitch  up  and  we'd  come  down  at  half-past  six, 
ready  to  eat  our  lunch  that  Annie  had  put  up,  and  then 
drive  home.  But  after  I  left  him  I  could  see  them 
gray  eyes  of  Mrs.  Pollock  and  them  wrinkles  in  her 
forehead.  I  could  hear  her  voice  and  I  could  see  a 
Marathon  talking  contest.  I  began  to  look  for  a  hole 
right  then.  I  ain't  a  coward,  but  I  can  be  mighty 
discreet  in  them  matters.  And  I  can  be  mighty  foxy, 


64  JIM  HANDS 

too.  I  tell  you  what  I  did.  I  got  my  Annie  to  one  side, 
and  she  was  the  one  I  told. 

"Well,"  she  says,  very  solemn.  "It  may  not  be  your 
fault.  You  say  it  ain't.  And  I  suppose  it  must  be 
done.  Jim,  dear,  it's  terrible,"  she  says.  "I  never  knew 
a  man  to  change  so  at  his  time  of  life.  He  was  so 
quiet  when  he  was  himself,"  she  says.  "I  wish  his 
wife  weren't  such  a  competent  woman,-"  she  says,  and 
she  went  over  and  got  Jerry's  wife  and  she  let  her 
have  it. 

I  thought  the  woman  was  going  to  faint  away  and 
then  come  too  and  talk  it  out.  What  do  you  think ! 
She  never  said  a  word  !  She  just  shut  her  jaws  tight  and 
brushed  out  her  skirt  and  looked  like  somebody  that 
ain't  ready  to  act  but  is  getting  ready.  She  never  said 
a  word  till  we  got  down  to  the  hitching-shed.  The 
carryall  was  there  and  the  horse. 

"Where's  Mr.  Pollock,  my  husband?"  she  says, 
looking  at  me  as  if  I'd  eaten  him. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you,  ma'am,"  I  says,  easy  and  per 
suading.  "I  left  him  here  a  half  hour  ago." 

"There's  nothing  to  do  but  wait,"  says  Annie.  "You 
don't  suppose  he's  playing,  as  you  call  it,  any  more." 

"I  do  not,"  says  I.  '  He  ain't  got  any  of  what's 
most  necessary,"  I  says,  and  sat  down  on  a  box.  I  sat 
there  and  listened  to  Mrs.  Pollock's  foot.  It  was  tap 
ping  on  the  bottom  of  the  carriage.  It's  one  of  them 
ugly  sounds  women  makes.  And  I  sat  there  listening 


JIM  HANDS  65 

to  that  and  the  crickets  in  the  grass  and  the  band  a 
long  way  off;  It  was  getting  cool,  too,  and  I  wished  I 
was  going  to  sit  down  to  a  warm  supper  at  home,  and 
the  girl  was  on  my  mind. 

It  weren't  quite  dark  when  Jerry  showed  up.  You 
oughter  see  him.  His  checked  suit  was  covered  with 
mud,  and  he  had  a  red  swelling  on  his  forehead.  But 
instead  of  hanging  his  head  and  looking  humble,  he 
danced  in  like  an  old  horse  that's  been  doctored  with 
liquor.  His  wife  give  him  a  terrible  glare,  poor  woman, 
but  it  didn't  do  no  good.  So  she  tried  the  voice. 

"Well!"  she  says. 

"Huh!"  says  Jerry.  "I  suppose  you  all  are  guess 
ing,"  he  says,  rubbing  his  hands.  "I  suppose  you  all 
think  I'm  the  kind  of  a  man  that  will  let  people  get  the 
best  of  me  and  be  down.  Not  me  ! " 

"You  ain't  been  doing  it  again  ?  "  I  says. 

"No,"  says,  he,  "I  ain't.  I  did  something  surer  than 
that,"  he  says  squaring  them  narrer  shoulders  of  his. 
"I  thought  that  cheating  feller  might  go  to  the  village 
for  his  supper,  and  he  did.  Who  follered  him?  I  did. 
Who  fought  with  him  when  he  got  to  a  nice  quiet 
place  with  nobody  around  ?  Me !  Who  licked  him  ? 
Me!  That's  me." 

"Pooh!"  says  Mrs.  Pollock,  rising  up  and  swelling. 
"You  ain't  content  with  gambling.  You  must  go  and 
fight  like  a  common  tough.  Ain't  you  a  nice  apology ! 
Fighting  won't  ever  buy  that  runabout ! " 


66  JIM  HANDS 

"Huh!"  says  Jerry.  " I  ain't  so  sure."  And  with 
that  he  digs  down  into  the  pants  pocket  of  that  checked 
suit  and  pulls  out  a  couple  of  handfuls  of  bills  and 
holds  'em  up.  "I  took  'em  away  from  him,"  he  says  - 
"just  what  was  right  to  a  dollar!"  And  he  brushes 
some  dust  off  the  front  of  his  coat.  "There's  more'n 
one  way  to  be  a  sport,"  he  says,  looking  at  the  money. 
"That's  me,"  he  says.  "I  ain't  afraid  of  anybody," 
he  says. 

I  guess  Mrs.  Pollock  was  thinking  fast  just  then. 

"Jerry,"  she  says,    "you  give    me  that    money - 
every  cent  of  it !    You  give  me  that  money,  and  I'll 
never  say  a  word  about  these  terrible  events  as  long 
as  I  live.     Give  it  to  me." 

"You  bet!  "says  he. 

And  I'll  always  remember  how  he  looked  then  in  that 
checked  suit,  trying  to  give  her  that  money  fast  and 
close  the  bargain  in  a  hurry. 

And  I  remember  the  look  on  Mrs.  Pollock's  face  as 
she  says,  "When 'we  get  home,"  she  says,  "you  take 
off  that  checked  suit  and  do  it  up  and  send  it  to  the  mis 
sionary  alliance,"  she  says.  "When  you  wear  it,  one 
thing  is  plain  enough.  I'm  taking  awful  risks  with 
my  husband,"  she  says. 

It  was  only  when  we  got  in  to  start  home  I  knew  my 
Annie  had  been  thinking  about  Katherine  and  thinking 
hard.  "Mr.  Hands  and  I  will  sit  together  in  the  back 
seat,"  she  says,  very  persuading,  and  I  seen  Jerry  give  a 


JIM  HANDS  67 

look  loaded  full  of  fright,  for  he  was  afraid  that  maybe 
even  the  money  he'd  given  his  wife  wouldn't  be  enough 
to  stop  a  conversation  full  of  woe  and  trouble  enough  to 
beat  disease  and  death.  He  was  scared  it  might  break 
loose  if  he  sat  beside  her,  and  all  the  sport  in  him  had 
gone. 

We  drove  down  over  by  Hendricks'  farm,  through 
them  dark,  cool  woods,  and  it  weren't  till  we  crossed  over 
the  rattling  wooden  bridge  below  the  spring  that 
Annie  leans  over  and  whispers  to  me.  She  only  said 
one  word,  but  you  could  tell  everything  by  that. 

"Katherine,"  she  says. 

I  shook  my  head  and  says,  "Yes." 

"Oh,  Jim,  dear,"  she  says,  "it  goes  to  show  a  wife 
oughter  tell  everything.  But  I  didn't  want  to  worry 
you.  It  was  almost  two  weeks  ago  he  came  up  Sunday 
afternoon  when  you  was  off  shooting  with  Ben  Joline. 
And  I  told  Katherine  she'd  better  not  go  walking  with 
him,  but  she  laughed  at  me  and  said  I  was  getting  silly, 
and  she  tied  the  bow  at  my  neck  and  told  me  I  was  the 
best  old  warrior  she  ever  knew.  I'm  a  weak  mother," 
says  she;  "I  was  jollied.  I  let  her  go,  and  the  pair  of 
'em  walked  away  strong  and  healthy  across  the  fields. 
It  would  do  you  good  to  see  'em." 

"It's  the  Boss's  son,"  I  says,  shaking  my  head.  "If 
he  don't  love  her  strong  —  with  the  kind  that  makes 
a  man  see  there  ain't  but  one  woman  among  'em  all, 
the  kind  that  makes  him  look  up  into  the  sky  and  wonder 


68  JIM  HANDS 

who  made  so  good  a  world  for  him  and  her  —  then," 
I  says,  "it's  a  bad  day  for  all  of  us.  For,"  I  says,  "I 
think  she  loves  him." 

"And  if  he  really  loves  her?"  says  she.  "What 
then?" 

"Annie,"  I  says,  "I  don't  know.  He's  the  Boss's 
son.  I  hardly  know  how  to  think,"  I  says.  "I  feel  like 
an  Iowa  farmer  trying  to  catch  deep-sea  fish  with  potato 
for  bait,"  I  says.  "It  can't  be  true,"  I  says,  "but  if  it 
is  —  there's  trouble,  even  then,"  I  says. 

I  seen  her  jaw  set  hard,  as  if  she  knew  what  I  meant. 
"Katherine  is  better  than  he  or  any  other  man  de 
serves,"  she  says.  "Mark  my  words,  Jim.  There's  some 
thing  stronger  than  the  difference  between  us  and  the 
Boss's  family, "  she  says.  "God  never  put  instincts  into 
human  beings — and  sometimes  I  believe  they  are  good 
as  bad  as  they  ever  get  —  to  have  'em  hampered  by 
social  standing,"  she  says.  "Listen  to  me,  and  don't 
forget  what  I  tell  you  right  now.  You've  heard  it 
before,  but  that  makes  no  difference.  What  is  good 
will  win,  Jim.  The  One  who  is  running  it  all  pays 
no  attention  to  whether  calling  cards  is  engraved  or 
printed,"  she  says,  taking  hold  of  my  hand,  "and  is 
very  busy  with  the  matter  of  seeing  that  what  I  say  is 
true.  Sometimes  He's  slow  in  getting  around  to  lend 
a  hand.  It's  fair  to  say  that.  But  don't  you  ever 
make  hints  about  them  differences  between  us  and 
anybody  —  don't  you  make  'em  ever  again." 


JIM   HANDS  69 

And  then  I  seen  her  face  in  the  moonlight.  You  could 
see  the  anxiety  on  it  as  plain  as  bread  on  a  white  plate. 
"Katherine  mustn't  be  going  about  like  this  if  it  isn't 
best  for  her/'  she  says.  "I  hope  she's  home  by  this 
time.  I'm  going  to  let  you  talk  to  her.  I  think/'  she 
says,  "that  women  learn  about  men  from  men/'  she 
says. 

But  it  was  when  we  got  home  and  had  got  out  our 
souvenirs  and  all  them  things  that  you  bring  home  and 
then  throw  away  the  next  day  and  said  good  night 
that  we  was  most  disturbed.  Old  Mrs.  Byrnes  had  put 
the  children  to  bed,  and  there  she  sat  under  the  light 
of  the  lamp  that  was  turned  up  too  high,  and  the  soot 
was  rising  to  the  ceiling,  and  there  was  a  cup  of  cold  tea 
beside  her  on  the  table  and  a  lot  of  knitting  in  her  lap, 
and  her  head  had  fallen  over,  and  every  time  she  took 
a  breath  in  her  sleep  she'd  let  it  out  with  a  whistle  that 
would  make  a  dog  think  he  was  staying  out  too  late. 
She  was  alone.  Katherine  hadn't  come  home ! 

Annie  never  said  a  word.  She  just  looked  up  at  the 
clock  and  woke  the  old  lady,  and  they  left  me  sitting 
alone. 

Waiting  for  somebody  ain't  any  fun,  and  less  than 
that  after  night  has  come  on.  When  I  think  of  the 
women  who  sit  and  wait  for  men  to  come  home,  and  I 
think  how  they  try  to  read,  and  put  the  book  down,  and 
every  chair  is  uncomfortable,  and  every  sound  outside 
is  a  disappointment,  and  the  ears  are  straining,  and  the 


70  JIM  HANDS 

noise  they  make  themselves  with  a  rustle  of  a  dress  or  a 
sigh  seems  too  loud;  as  if  it  was  going  to  wake  some  evil, 
and  trains  whistle  a  long  way  off,  and  they  think  of  a 
thousand  things  that  may  have  happened,  and  look  at  the 
clock  a  thousand  times,  and  hope  that  some  good  feller, 
as  people  call  'em,  will  come  home,  then  I  know  very 
well  that  women  ought  to  have  all  the  pity.  They  ain't 
captains  of  their  own  ships.  Of  course  some  folks  say 
it  ain't  necessary,  and  say  it  would  be  better  for  women 
not  to  bear  with  the  troubles  men  cause  'em.  But  I 
don't  say  so.  I  say  the  evil  and  the  pain  of  it  is  just  a 
chance  for  women's  loyalty  and  patience.  It's  better 
to  have  both  than  neither.  I  thought  of  it  as  I  sat 
there. 

It  was  midnight,  and  the  moon  had  gone  down  be 
hind  the  tops  of  the  trees  on  the  hill  before  I  heard  the 
wheels  outside,  and  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  girl 
came  in,  running  up  the  path,  and  pink  with  the  cold. 

"It's  late,"  I  says. 

"We  let  the  horse  walk,"  says  she.  "It  was  so  beau 
tiful,"  she  says. 

"You  didn't  say  anything  to  me  or  your  mother 
about  going,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  says,  looking  at  the  floor,  with  them 
long  lashes  of  hers  showing  on  her  cheeks.  "It  was  a 
secret." 

I  had  hot  words  on  my  tongue  then,  but  I  rolled  them 
around  my  teeth  a  bit.  "A  feller  can  ruin  his  own 


JIM  HANDS  71 

daughter  with  a  couple  of  sharp  raps  on  her  pride," 
I  says  to  myself.  "It's  her  ship,  and  she's  got  to  invite 
me  on  board,"  I  says  to  myself.  "It  won't  do  any  good 
to  try  to  knock  a  hole  in  the  vessel.  She'd  only  go  to 
the  bottom,"  I  says  to  myself. 

So  I  kinder  smiled  at  her  and  wiped  my  glasses,  and 
I  says,  "Will  you  tell  me  the  next  time?  Will  you  let 
me  in?"  I  says. 

And  she  just  nodded,  and  I  seen  the  flush  in  her  cheeks. 

"Well,"  says  I,  wiping  my  glasses  some  harder,  and 
looking  at  her  eyes  square  and  straight,  "I  want  to 
ask  you  something,  Katherine.  You  won't  mind," 
I  says,  "because  it's  me.  Has  Bob  Harvey  —  in  these 
times  you've  been  together — ever  kissed  you?  "  I  says. 

"No,"  she  says,  waving  a  good  night  to  me  at  the 
door.  "But  sometimes  I've  wished  he  would,"  she  says. 

"Wait,"  says  I,  getting  stern  with  her.  "It's  time 
to  put  an  end  to  this." 

She  looked  at  me  then,  and  her  face  was  set  hard  all 
of  a  sudden.  If  she'd  said  the  words  with  that  ex 
pression,  I  wouldn't  have  worried  so,  but  I  seen  her 
relax,  and  her  eyes  looked  big  and  innocent  and  wonder 
ing,  and  her  lips  was  open,  and  she  seemed  to  be  talk 
ing  to  herself.  "Oh,  no,"  she  says.  "You  don't 
understand.  It  hasn't  begun."  And  then  she  gives 
one  of  them  little  laughs  of  hers  and  says:  "Let  him 
ask  for  a  kiss.  They're  mine.  They  cost  me  nothing, 
and  they  wouldn't  cost  him  much." 


72  JIM  HANDS 

It  was  that  remark  I  didn't  tell  to  Annie,  and  the  one 
that  kept  me  thinking  like  a  man  in  the  top  story  of 
a  building  that's  afire.  For  I  knew  that  of  all  the  things 
a  woman  is  wilful  about  it  is  them  things  she  has  to 
give  away.  And  many  a  small  and  selfish  woman  gets 
credit  for  being  good  only  because  she's  selfish.  And 
by  the  same  token  many  of  the  best  of  them  are  spend 
thrifts  through  the  bigness  of  their  heart.  And  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  theDurn  Fool  maybe  Katherine  wouldn't 
have  had  the  life  she  has.  And  besides,  it  was  only 
through  him  that  my  girl  and  me  understood  each  other 
again. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  Burn  Fool  was  a  strange  contrivance.  The  first 
time  we  ever  saw  him  was  on  a  colored  bill-poster, 
when  a  theatre  company  was  coming  to  town.  Fred 
Duvey,  the  "  inimitable  comedian  "  of  the  J.  K.  Little- 
field  Sunlight  Comedy  Company,  it  said,  though  his 
real  name  was  Fred  Duffee.  There  are  only  about 
seven  shows  a  year  that  play  this  town,  and  about  three 
are  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  companies,  where  all  the 
fellers  that  sit  in  the  front  row  bring  meat  to  throw  on 
the  stage,  and  make  the  bloodhounds  forget  about  the 
girl  they're  chasing.  When  a  real  singing  and  dancing 
show  with  a  soubrette  and  comedian  comes  along, 
almost  all  of  the  two  hundred  hands  in  this  factory 
pack  into  the  town  hall.  It's  better  than  a  fire  to 
break  the  monotony. 

I  remember  exactly  how  that  show  pulled  off.  There 
weren't  much  to  it  except  Fred  Duvey,  and  he  came  out 
and  says  how  he  was  going  to  attempt  to  amuse  the 
audience  without  any  coarseness  like  was  common 
in  variety  acts  nowadays,  and  he  sang  a  song  about  a 
farmer  who  had  a  telephone  put  in  his  house,  till  every 
body  was  holding  their  sides  for  laughing,  and  tears 
was  rolling  down  Dave  Pierson's  cheeks,  who's  sort  of 
noted  for  a  long-faced  disposition ;  and  then  he  danced 

73 


74  JIM  HANDS 

a  buck  and  wing,  with  every  click  of  his  shoes  so  prompt 
and  certain  it  made  you  hold  your  knees  and  jiggle 
'em,  and  after  that  he  told  some  stories  —  not  the 
kind  of  funny  stories  that  slap  you  over  the  head,  but 
sort  of  sly  stories  that  had  some  of  the  men  with  beards 
giggling  like  a  bunch  of  stitching-room  sorters,  and  he 
went  out,  with  the  people  in  the  audience  laughing  and 
clapping  and  slapping  each  other's  knees  and  forgetting 
about  the  grocer's  bill. 

"He  was  sure  a  comical  cuss,"  says  Arthur  Ferris, 
going  out  of  the  hall;  "but,  say,  wasn't  the  girl  who 
sang  '  The  Hills  of  Old  Vermont '  sad  and  pretty,  and 
sick  and  white  ?  "  he  says. 

"You're  right,"  says  Teddy  Dona  van,  who  knew 
everything  about  everybody  in  town,  from  their  face 
to  the  number  of  their  watch.  "That's  his  wife!" 

Well,  before  the  actors  had  got  back  to  the  hotel, 
the  manager  left  town  with  the  money  and  whatever 
stuff  he  could  get  together.  It  was  just  like  the  jokes 
you  see  in  the  funny  papers.  But  you  bet,  I  knew  it 
weren't  no  joke  to  the  Durn  Fool. 

He  came  into  the  factory  next  day  after  a  job  — 
came  up  to  me  as  spry  and  chipper  as  a  horsefly,  with 
his  wife  behind,  quiet  and  slim,  and  her  hands  folded 
in  front,  kind  of  patient.     He  was  a  sawed-off  feller  — 
too  much  of  a  fool  to  grow,  as  Peter  Cross  used  to  say  - 
and  fat,  with  red  hair  that  looked  like  grass  just  after 
the  lawn  mower  has  been  over  it,  except  for  the  color. 


JIM  HANDS  75 

"The  Boss  sent  me  to  you,  Mr.  Hands,"  he  says. 
"Me  and  my  wife  want  a  job,  for  we've  descended  from 
the  sublime  artistic  life  in  one  night,"  he  says,  "to  the 
reality  of  sordid  commerce,  and  we're  more  bust  than 
the  liquor  laws,"  and  with  that  he  did  a  little  break 
down  on  the  wooden  floor  and  struck  an  attitude  which 
he  said  correctly  represented  Fred  Duffee  defying 
adversity.  It  made  all  the  hands,  who'd  stopped  their 
work  and  were  standing  pop-eyed  like  they  do,  holler 
with  laughing.  Then  he  reaches  out  and  sort  of  pats 
her  arm,  and  I  could  see  his  hands  was  shaky  with  the 
fear  I'd  turn  him  down.  So  I  gave  'em  a  place.  — 
That's  the  way  we  get  a  lot  of  our  labor,  —  green  and 
fresh  as  a  head  of  lettuce,  —  and  there  might  have  been 
something  in  the  frail  looks  of  the  wife,  a  fear  of  the 
look  of  disappointment  on  a  woman's  face  that  gives 
a  whole  man  a  scare  worse  than  a  six-shooter. 

Duffee,  the  Burn  Fool,  never  did  nothing  to  earn 
more  than  a  dollar  a  day,  and  did  so  much  talking  and 
chin  music  and  fool-shines  to  stop  the  other  hands  at 
their  work  that  it  cost  us  about  twelve  dollars  a  week 
to  have  him  in  the  room.  That's  what  the  Boss  said. 
But  I  says  that  he  was  just  like  one  of  them  machines 
I  was  telling  you  about,  —  different  from  the  rest,  - 
comical  and  refreshing,  and  kept  the  men  cheerful  and 
lively  and  interested  in  the  work,  so  he  more  than 
earned  his  money. 

He  was  full  of  jimcracks  and  funny  little  ways,  and 


76  JIM  HANDS 

he  could  do  a  serious  turn,  too,  sometimes  during  the 
noon  hour,  and  the  men  used  to  get  him  to  recite  the 
old  favorite,  called  "The  Face  on  the  Bar-room  Floor," 
—  all  about  a  poor  cuss  in  the  grip  of  drink,  —  and  an 
other  poem,  too,  about  how  a  feller's  father  found  the 
feller  dying  on  the  battle-field  after  the  fighting  was  over, 
and  Fred  used  to  get  down  on  one  knee,  side  of  a  pile 
of  scrap  leather,  and  look  at  it  so  earnest  and  sad  you'd 
begin  to  half  think  the  thing  was  the  old  man's  son. 
But  he  never  got  serious  about  himself,  or,  at  least  he 
never  showed  it  —  he  was  just  a  durn  fool,  and  I  guess 
he  knew  it.  Even  the  day  he  sewed  two  fingers  to 
gether  on  the  machine  he  just  laughed  and  said  he  hoped 
he  hadn't  broken  anything,  and  that  he  felt  "so-so," 
and  then  over  he  went,  white  and  limp,  like  wet  tissue- 
paper,  and  Gracie,  his  wife,  coming  with  her  little 
scream.  She  took  his  head  in  her  lap,  patting  and 
fondling  where  the  folds  lay  in  his  little  fat  neck,  and 
whispering,  "Fred,  my  Fred."  But  we  knew  she 
loved  him  some,  you  bet ! 

And  she  —  well,  she  was  the  silent  sort.  Nobody 
ever  could  treat  her  brutal,  I  don't  believe,  she  was 
that  thin  and  patient.  But  it  seemed  kinder  as  if 
just  being  alive  was  brutal  to  her — as  if  some  big  hand 
you  couldn't  see  was  walloping  her  wherever  she  turned. 
It  made  me  nervous  to  see  how  steady  her  head  bent 
over  the  machine,  and  no  laughing  except  once  in  a 
while  when  her  husband,  the  Durn  Fool,  would  come 


JIM  HANDS  77 

up  behind  her  chair  and  whisper  some  one  of  his  funny 
cracks  to  her. 

And  he  was  an  uncommon  senseless  feller.  He  never 
did  the  right  thing,  except  when  it  come  to  doing  a  little 
jig  step  or  cheering  somebody  up  when  they  felt  mean. 
There  was  a  long  while  before  any  one  in  the  factory 
knew  there  was  a-  different  side  to  Duffee,  and  when  he 
didn't  keep  us  laughing  with  him,  we  was  always  laugh 
ing  at  him  for  his  durn  fool  mistakes.  It  was  Duffee 
had  loaned  his  last  week's  pay  to  Joe  Carr,  who'd 
skipped  the  town,  or  Duffee  who  had  bought  some 
shares  in  a  gold-mine  for  thirty-five  cents  apiece. 

Well  I  remember  when  Duffee  seen  an  advertise 
ment  in  the  back  of  a  picture  paper  saying  how  a  feller 
in  Battle  Creek,  Michigan,  would  tell  you  a  sure  way 
to  get  rich  for  twenty  cents  in  stamps.  All  he  sent 
Fred  was  a  piece  of  paper,  and  written  on  it,  "Fool 
other  fools  like  I  fooled  you."  And  that  summer,  wrhen 
the  Durn  Fool  was  wearing  a  straw  hat  with  half  a  top 
to  it,  and  the  little  wife  had  cut  the  cuffs  off  her  best 
shirtwaist  for  the  fringe  that  was  hanging  there,  he 
come  sneaking  around  to  me. 

"Jim,"  he  says,  polishing  up  a  little  shiny  thing  on 
his  sleeve,  "we  live  but  once,  and  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
ain't  had  a  good  time  for  over  a  hundred  years,  and  as 
I  was  saying,  I  passed  by  the  jeweller's  window  this 
morning,  and  there  sat  a  little  ring  with  a  stone  in  it 
the  color  of  that  bit  of  sky  yonder.  Take  a  look  at 


78  JIM  HANDS 

the  sky.  And  just  four  years  ago  to-day  I  was  married 
to  her,  see?  Well,  I  thinks  she's  been  a  sticker,  good 
and  bad,  buttered  side  and  bare  side  and  no  bread  at 
all.  She'd  do  anything  for  you,  boy,  I  thinks  to  my 
self  —  even  take  in  washing  while  you  played  the  races, 
as  they  say  in  the  song,  and  that's  loving  some.  Give 
the  best,  says  I  to  myself;  they  don't  come  more  de 
serving.  So  I  buys  it  —  cost  me  the  week's  pay  lack 
ing  a  pile  of  pennies,  and  I've  been  sorry  once  or  twice, 
for  our  assets  daren't  look  our  liabilities  in  the  face. 
But,  say,  what  do  you  think  of  the  ring?  " 

He  gave  it  to  her  all  right  behind  the  door  of  the 
stitching-room.  I  seen  it,  and  seen  how  her  face  all 
lit  up  and  then  sobered  down  again,  like  when  you  pull 
down  a  bulkhead  and  shut  the  light  out  of  a  cellar, 
and  she  says,  "How  much  did  you  pay  for  this,  part 
ner?  "  -it  was  her  way  to  call  him  "partner."  And 
he  told  her,  but  it  weren't  till  he'd  gone  back  to  his 
machine  that  I  seen  the  tears  in  her  eyes  and  the  cussed 
little  ring  wearing  heavy  on  her  finger. 

There  weren't  any  brains  in  his  heart  —  that's  what 
ailed  the  Burn  Fool,  and  he  had  a  thousand-dollar 
hand  with  a  ten-cent  pocket,  as  he  said  once  himself. 

I  suppose  none  of  us  ever  expected  more  of  him  than 
to  hear  his  joking  and  breakdowns  on  the  factory  floor, 
and  his  laugh,  —  great  guns !  you  should  have  heard 
that  laugh,  — there  weren't  nothing  like  it,  and  more'n 
one  feller  has  spoken  of  how  he's  missed  it  since  Fred 


JIM  HANDS  79 

left  us.  We  were  half  blind,  I  guess,  not  to  notice,  but 
toward  fall  the  girl  got  so  she  couldn't  stand  the  work, 
and  we  kind  of  half  realized  she  was  sick;  but  Fred 
still  kept  on  with  his  whistling  and  imitations  of  Dutch 
men  and  the  Irish,  and  came  down  to  the  factory  alone, 
and  didn't  eat  any  noon  meal,  so's  to  pay  the  doctor 
and  keep  'em  both  alive,  and  so  on. 

Then  there  came  the  one  time  when  I  see  the  in- 
sides  of  the  Burn  Fool,  the  way  you  might  see  into 
a  watch  when  the  shiny  back  is  pulled  off  it.  It  was 
a  Sunday  afternoon,  just  after  the  first  heavy  frost, 
when  the  valley  and  the  hills  were  all  streaked  and 
spotted  and  laid  out  in  colors  as  bright  as  a  bedquilt, 
and  the  air  was  so  clear  you  could  see  the  crows  hanging 
above  the  green  strip  of  pine  woods  on  Maple  Hill  so 
they  looked  like  flies  swooping  around  in  front  of  your 
nose. 

I  was  banking  up  the  earth  around  the  house,  for 
these  Northern  winters  sit  heavy,  and  my  Annie  was 
inside  pulling  the  kid's  overcoats  and  things  out  of  the 
newspapers  and  camphor,  when  along  comes  Fred 
Duffee,  with  his  little  legs  a-moving.  He  weren't  so 
fat  then  —  life  had  bumped  him  some  since  he  landed 
in  town,  but  he  was  whistling,  all  right. 

"It's  a  fine  day,  Jim,"  he  says.  "Does  every  hair 
on  your  head  feel  like  a  jews '-harp  ?  I  want  you  to 
take  a  walk  with  me  —  for  a  purpose,"  he  says. 

There  was  no  refusing  him.     "Wait  till  I  get  my 


80  JIM  HANDS 

coat/'  I  says,  and  we  went  out  the  Dun's  Road,  with 
the  frost-hardened  gravel  crackling  under  us,  and  the 
Durn  Fool  telling  me  how  he  dreaded  the  winter,  being 
poor,  and  expecting  to  have  to  eat  snowballs  with  maple 
syrup  on  'em.  I  guess  you  could  have  heard  his  laugh 
clean  across  the  pastures. 

It  weren't  till  we  stopped  to  sit  on  the  top  rail  of 
a  fence,  where  you  could  look  down  and  see  the  river 
widening  out  just  above  the  factory,  that  I  knew  what 
he  was  after.  I  remember  just  as  if  it  was  now  how 
I  looked  around  at  him.  His  face  was  all  pulled  down 
into  lines,  and  his  hands  was  plucking  at  his  pants. 
Why,  it  looked  like  a  sort  of  a  skin  had  dropped  off 
him  —  you'd  never  know  it  was  him  at  all. 

"Jim,"  he  says,  "I  haven't  got  no  hard-luck  story, 
but  I'm  just  bound  to  tell  somebody  I'm  near  crazy 
this  time.  I've  laughed  for  near  thirty  years  now, 
but  part  of  it  was  a  cussed  sham,  and  now  I'm  up 
against  the  truth,  and  somehow  I  can't  make  any  joke 
of  it.  It  looks  to  you  as  if  I  never  seen  a  sober  thing, 
don't  it?  It  looks  to  you  as  if  all  my  mistakes,  and 
so  on,  don't  give  no  worry  to  me,  and  as  if  being  up 
against  it  and  putting  a  girl  like  Grace  up  against  it 
ain't  anything  to  me.  It  looks  to  you  as  if  seeing  the 
color  fade  out  of  her  face,  and  she  sticking  like  poultice 
and  never  a  squeal,  don't  mean  nothing  to  a  feller 
like  me.  And  what  good  am  I,  anyhow?  What  do  I 
amount  to?  " 


JIM  HANDS  81 

"Go  on!"  says  I.     "You're  all  right." 

"All  right?"  says  he.  "As  what?  As  a  cussed 
jumping-jack — a  clown  —  everybody's  goat.  That's 
what.  And  that's  all,  I  guess,  I'll  ever  be  —  a  low 
comedian  on  life's  stage,"  he  says,  and  pulled  his 
old  felt  hat  down  on  his  head.  "Never  amount  to 
nothing." 

"What  ails  you,  man?  "  I  says,  jumping  down  and 
standing  in  front  of  him  as  he  sat  there  on  the  top  rail, 
all  kind  of  battered-looking,  like  a  wet  bird.  "You've 
got  an  off  day." 

"No,  I  ain't,"  he  answers.  "There's  a  new  misery 
come  to  me.  It  was  bad  enough  to  take  Grace  away 
from  her  old  man,  but  she  came  to  me  willing  enough. 
I  guess  I  was  a  cheerful  cuss,  and  she  was  brought  up 
among  stern  people  and  didn't  know  nothing  about 
the  world  except  duty  and  sewing  and  such  things. 
She  knows  it  now,  all  right !  She's  been  a  house  plant 
set  out  in  cold  weather,  you  bet !  Poor  little  girl. 
And  her  old  man  is  a  forbidding  feller  —  he  set  his  hand 
against  her  when  she  came  with  me,"  he  says. 

I  was   squirming  then  like  a  teased  angleworm  - 
it  was  a  great  change  from  the  laugh  of  the  Burn  Fool 
to  that  kind  of  talk.     I'd  rather  have  heard  rattle 
snakes. 

"Oh,  it's  been  a  cup  of  bitters,"  he  says.  "She 
never  says  nothing  —  never  a  squeak,  and  it's  got  worse 
and  worse.  I'm  just  a  chump.  That's  why  I  went 


82  JIM  HANDS 

into  the  show  business,  and  I  couldn't  seem  to  get  along 
even  at  that,  except  before  I  married  her.  Don't 
you  suppose  she's  sorry  she  ever  got  into  it,  Jim  ?  I've 
layed  awake  nights  to  wonder  about  it.  But  that  ain't 
nothing  —  there's  more  !  " 

" More ?  "  says  I.     "What  is  it  now  —  the  cholera ?  " 

"No,"  he  says,  never  cracking  a  smile,  "it's  being 
a  father." 

"Great  guns!"  says  I,  thinking  of  the  pay  he  was 
getting,  and  the  stuffy  little  room  they  had  up  at  Mrs. 
Riordan's  lodging-house. 

"It  ain't  the  being  up  against  it,  Jim  — it  ain't 
only  because  I  can't  take  care  of  'em  decent  when  the 
time  comes,"  says  he,  "but  it's  me  being  a  father! 
How  can  I  show  a  kid  the  way  when  I  never  found  it 
myself  ?  He'll  —  I've  always  thought  of  its  being 
a  boy  —  he'll  grow  up  to  find  me  what  I  am,  Jim," 
he  says,  "and  I  ain't  got  no  purpose  in  the  world.  I 
don't  know  what  they  put  me  here  for.  And  now 
they're  going  to  make  me  have  a  boy.  It's  awful; 
it's  too  tough  to  be  true." 

I  thought  of  the  wife.  "That  ain't  the  way  you 
talk  to  her,  is  it  ?  "  says  I,  anxious. 

"No,  no,"  he  says,  waving  his  hand  like  you'd  make 
a  swipe  at  a  fly  in  the  air;  "I  darsn't;  she's  too 
happy." 

"And  you're  bust?"  I  asks.  He  grins  some  and 
looks  at  the  places  on  his  two  knees,  where  what  was 


JIM   HANDS  83 

underneath  showed  through  like  two  maps  of  Ireland. 
Then  he  jumped  down,  and  we  went  home. 

When  we  got  to  the  house,  I  turned  and  looked  at 
him,  and  so  help  me,  it  seemed  to  me  he  looked  just 
like  the  Durn  Fool  again !  "I  hear  Mellen,  the  under 
taker,  is  doing  such  a  poor  business  that  he  has  sent 
his  son  away  to  learn  to  be  a  doctor,"  he  says. 

"Fred,"  says  I,  paying  no  attention,  "come  to  me  — 
you  know  —  when  you  need  me,"  and  I  jumped  the 
fence  to  be  rid  of  him. 

It  was  warm  inside  with  the  smell  of  cooking,  and  I 
felt  lucky  for  it  all,  and  for  my  little  Michael  with  his 
arms  as  fat  as  sausages,  and  everything. 

My  Annie  had  gone  away  for  a  day  or  two  down 
'  to  the  Junction  to  do  some  shopping  for  the  winter, 
and  I  found  the  girl  in  the  kitchen  arguing  with  the  old 
lady  Byrnes  and  trying  to  persuade  her  not  to  put 
rhubarb  into  a  boiled  dinner.  And  when  Mrs.  Byrnes 
went  out  mad  and  red  from  standing  over  the  stove, 
something  made  me  tell  the  whole  story  to  Katherine. 

"The  poor  girl,  the  poor  girl,"  says  she,  never  think 
ing  of  the  Durn  Fool's  trouble  at  all,  and  catching 
at  my  sleeve.  "And  nobody  but  that  Riordan  woman 
with  her.  I'll  go  to  her,"  she  says. 

And  it  come  on  to  rain  that  afternoon,  with  the  sting 
of  the  first  touch  of  winter  in  the  sleet,  and  it  weren't 
till  after  dark  that  Katherine  comes  in  through  the  door. 
There  was  water  dripping  off  her,  and  her  hat  was  all 


84  JIM  HANDS 

askew  with  the  wind,  but  she  was  fresh  in  the  cheeks, 
and  her  mouth  was  in  the  curve  that  means  something. 

"Come  into  the  kitchen  where  I  can  get  a  bit  of 
warmth  and  dry  feet,"  says  she.  "They  ain't  got 
nothing  up  there.  We've  got  to  make  it  out  for  'em, 
somehow.  But  it's  her  father  she  wants  to  see  —  her 
father,  who  shut  his  door  to  her.  He  lives  down  at 
Potlake,  —  he's  a  farmer,  —  well  off,  too,  I  guess,  and 
living  alone  since  the  other  girl  died.  He  don't  know 
where  this  girl  is.  But  you've  got  to  go  down  there 
to-morrow  and  bring  him  up  here,  Dad,  even  if  they 
dock  you  at  the  factory." 

That's  what  she  says,  and  I  shied  the  job.  "He 
won't  listen  to  me,"  says  I. 

"He'll  listen  to  me,"  she  says.  "I'll  go,"  she  says. 
"There  ain't  nobody  that  won't  melt  if  the  match  is 
held  right,"  says  she. 

"It's  a  crazy  notion  for  a  young  girl,"  I  says,  but  she 
had  her  way  just  the  same. 

I've  had  to  laugh,  though,  about  the  way  she  said  she 
felt  on  the  train,  and  how  she  dreaded  to  walk  up  the 
steps  of  that  house  out  on  the  road  at  the  edge  of 
Potlake. 

That  old  man  she'd  gone  to  see  was  about  six  feet 
tall,  for  all  the  bend  in  his  shoulders,  and  he  had  a 
beard  and  hair  about  the  color  of  granite,  trimmed  up 
just  close  enough  so's  you  could  see  the  squareness  of 
his  jaw.  I  guess  he  never  laughed.  He  was  one  of 


JIM  HANDS  85 

these  old  fellers  that  are  so  sure  they're  right,  you  are 
more  than  half  sure  you're  wrong  —  the  kind  of  man 
who  looks  well  in  baggy  pants,  and  wears  eye-glasses 
with  black  rims.  She  says  the  inside  of  the  house 
smelled  musty,  like  old  ledger-books  smell.  There  was 
a  globe  of  the  world  in  the  parlor,  and  a  painting  of 
a  woman  with  one  of  these  red  coral  neck-pieces,  and 
pressed  flowers  framed  and  hanging  on  the  wall,  and 
a  stuffed  bird  on  top  of  a  bookcase. 

"How  can  I  serve  you?  "  says  he,  quiet  and  polite, 
just  like  that,  but  with  a  voice  like  the  side  of  a  house. 
She  never  made  even  a  pass  at  returning  his  lead,  and 
she  says  her  tongue  felt  so  fat  she  couldn't  close  her 
mouth.  The  old  man  was  so  different  from  Fred 
Duffee  you'd  hardly  know  they  were  two  men. 

"I've  come  to  get  you  to  go  to  your  daughter  Grace," 
says  she.  "She  wants  to  see  you."  That  burned  the 
fuse  down  to  the  powder  all  right.  The  old  man  grabs 
the  arms  of  his  chair  with  his  hands  till  the  wood 
cracked,  and  he  just  looked  at  her  till  he  was  pop-eyed 
and  red  like  a  feller  with  the  sunstroke. 

"I've  got  no  daughter  Grace.  A  miserable  play 
actor  has  took  her  from  me,"  he  says,  precise  and 
frozen.  "I  won't  listen  to  you  —  you  hireling,"  he 
says,  and  in  a  minute  more  he  was  up  on  his  feet  walk 
ing  this  way  and  that,  and  turning  back  at  the  corners 
like  a  polar  bear  in  a  cage  at  the  circus.  "Tell  me 
they're  starving,"  he  busts  out  again,  "or  perhaps  he's 


86  JIM  HANDS 

left  her.  That's  what  you  come  for;  but  I  guess  I 
know  my  duty,  and  I've  done  it  when  I  seen  it.  There 
ain't  no  wrong  done  but  what  she's  done.  Who  are  you  ? 
Miss  Hands?  Well,  Miss  Hands,  let  me  tell  you  I 
won't  go  back  with  you,  not  on  this  noon's  train  or 
this  night's  train  or  any  train  from  now  to  eternity. 
The  Lord  gave  me  light  on  this  matter,  and  you  can't 
change  me.  I'm  sorry  for  her  suffering  and  her  loneli 
ness.  She's  had  it.  So  have  I.  I'm  a  lonely  man, 
but  I  ain't  going  to  do  any  different  from  what  I've 
done.  There  ain't  any  more  to  say,  is  they?  "  he  says, 
stopping  with  his  hands  all  in  two  knots  and  shaking. 

aJust  one,  I  guess,"  she  says.  "You're  going  to  be 
a  grandfather  in  a  day  or  two  —  if  you  ain't  already." 

The  old  cuss  looked  at  her  with  his  mouth  falling 
open  and  a  kind  of  a  scare  in  his  eyes.  A  couple  of 
times  he  made  a  pass  at  saying  something,  and  then 
he  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair,  and  his  head  kinder  shook 
around  to  where  he  could  look  out  the  window  down 
the  stretch  of  white  road  with  the  elm  trees  lined  up 
along  the  sides.  She  says  it  was  near  five  minutes 
that  he  paid  no  more  attention  to  her  than  the  chair 
she  was  sitting  in.  And  then  by  and  by  he  crawls  up, 
kinder  feeble,  and  walks  over  to  the  table  and  opens 
up  a  big  book  with  a  mirror  in  the  cover  —  a  photo 
graph  album,  I  guess  —  and  commences  turning  over 
the  pictures.  He  stops  once  for  a  long  while,  and  goes 
on  turning  the  pages  and  stops  again,  and  kept  a-setting 


JIM  HANDS  87 

the  black-rimmed  eye-glasses  back  on  the  red  mark  on 
his  nose.  Then  he  looks  up  at  Katherine  and  walks 
across  the  room.  "I'm  getting  a  little  mite  stiff  these 
days,  young  lady, — just  help  me  with  this  overcoat. 
I'm  going  back  with  you,"  he  says.  It  was  just  like 
some  trees  that  won't  blow  down  unless  the  wind  is  just 
right,  and  then  up  they  come,  roots  and  all. 

So  they  come  back  on  the  three  o'clock  train. 
Katherine  come  after  me,  and  it  was  near  sunset  when 
we  climbed  up  by  the  factory  to  Mrs.  Riordan's  house. 
The  old  man  had  never  cracked  a  smile  or  said  a  word 
all  the  way.  Katherine  and  the  old  cuss  went  in,  and 
I  sorter  realized  that  a  heap  had  happened  since  I  left 
town,  and  that  it  was  all  over  but  the  shouting,  and  I 
ain't  a  great  hand  to  mix  up  in  no  way  with  it.  I  just 
sat  on  a  stone  across  the  way  with  this  very  pipe  I've 
got  here  in  my  hand  now. 

After  a  while  Fred  and  the  old  man  come  out  of  the 
door  —  the  old  cuss  a-wiping  his  specs  on  a  blue  ban 
danna  and  running  his  hand  up  through  the  places 
where  the  hair  grew  thickest.  "The  finest  I  ever  see," 
he  says,  sitting  down  on  the  doorstep  slow  and  careful. 

For  a  bit  the  two  of  'em  sat  there,  and  it  was  still 
and  quiet  through  the  valley,  with  the  town  down 
below,  and  smoke  coming  out  of  the  chimneys  where 
folks  was  getting  dinner.  Then  Fred  leaned  over  and 
says  something  to  the  old  man,  —  just  to  try  his  hand 
on  him,  I  guess,  —  I  couldn't  hear  what  it  was.  The 


88  JIM  HANDS 

old  feller  —  he  give  a  shout  that  banged  up  against  the 
hills  and  about  cracked  his  old  face  with  laughing,  it 
had  been  set  sour  so  long,  and  a-shaking  himself  and 
rubbing  his  knees.  All  of  a  sudden  he  sobered  down, 
and  he  turned  around  and  looked  at  Fred.  "Never 
mind,"  says  he,  "I  was  right  —  you're  the  durndest 
fool  I  ever  seen." 

And  then  Katherine  came  out  smiling  and  happy,  and 
she  came  over  to  the  rock  where  I  was  sitting,  and  sat 
down  herself  and  looked  off  up  the  valley. 

" Isn't  it  wonderful?"  she  says,  after  a  while.  And 
she  didn't  say  anything  more  for  several  minutes. 

But  finally  she  put  her  hand  on  the  edge  of  my  coat 
and  says,  "Everything  seems  different  to  me  after  this 
day,"  she  says.  "I  guess  maybe  I've  learned  some 
thing  about  fathers,"  she  says. 

"I  hope,"  I  says,  "I  ain't  got  a  hawk  nose  like  that 
one,"  I  says,  pointing  with  my  thumb. 

She  smiled  a  little,  and  then  she  says:  "Don't  you 
worry  about  me,  Dad.  If  there  is  badness  in  me,  it's 
broken  to  harness,"  she  says.  "I've  been  thinking 
just  now  about  the  talk  you  had  with  me  the  evening 
I  came  back  from  the  fair.  I  see  it  different  now," 
she  says.  "This  day  has  taught  me  a  lot.  You  should 
see  the  baby's  hands ! "  she  says. 

And  then  again  she  was  looking  off  up  the  valley 
where  them  blue  mountains  are.  "I  guess  you  oughter 
know,"  she  says.  "It  don't  seem  to  be  a  thing  I  can 


JIM  HANDS  89 

help  very  well,"  she  says,  looking  at  the  ground.  "I 
love  him,"  she  says. 

"And  has  the  Old  Boss  been  told?  "  says  I,  a  little 
shaky. 

"There  ain't  anything  to  tell,"  she  says. 

"What!  Doesn't  the  lad  love  you?"  I  says,  with 
the  words  sticking  all  over  my  mouth. 

She  laughed  then.  "I  wish,"  says  she,  "I  wish  I 
knew." 

And  the  funny  thing  about  it  was  that  things  shaped 
up  in  the  week  or  two  right  after  that  so  she  could  find 
out.  It  was  just  as  if  somebody  had  overheard  what 
she  said,  and  went  to  work  to  bring  things  around  so 
that,  by  suffering  a  lot  of  pain,  she  could  see. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

I  USED  to  think  in  them  days  that  Katherine  had 
some  queer  notions,  and  her  friendship  for  Tommy 
Cutts  was  one  of  'em.  The  time  she  was  spending  in 
them  days  to  make  over  that  little  boy  would  surprise 
you.  When  he  came  to  me,  he  claimed  to  be  only 
fourteen  years  old,  and  yet  he  was  the  toughest  piece 
of  animal  creation  I  have  ever  run  across,  from  a  Geor 
gia  wild  cat  to  a  Lake-front  stevedore.  The  Old  Boss 
is  a  big-hearted,  steady-eyed  business  man  from  Massa 
chusetts  who  always  takes  more  on  his  shoulders  and 
brains  than  any  other  three-meal-a-day  man  can  carry, 
and  then  always  makes  a  success  out  of  all  of  it.  But 
when  he  tried  to  make  a  Christian  soul  out  of  the  Cutts 
boy,  he  ran  into  as  sure  a  failure  as  if  he  had  tried  to 
tie  a  pair  of  white  wings  on  to  a  snake,  and  turn  it  into 
a  love-bird. 

I  remember  it  had  been  some  time  that  last  April 
when  the  Boss  had  called  me  down  into  the  office  to 
tell  me  the  trouble  was  coming,  and  fill  my  ear  with 
a  song  and  dance  about  how  some  city  institution  was 
going  to  send  him  a  boy  whose  parents  were  both  serv 
ing  long  terms  on  account  of  what  folks  call  impulsive 

90 


JIM  HANDS  91 

temperaments,  and  how  he  wanted  to  make  a  man  of 
him  and  teach  him  a  trade,  and  how  the  first  principle 
was  to  give  him  good  clothes  and  clean  collars  to  raise 
his  self-respect,  and  get  him  a  nice  room  at  Mrs.  Rior- 
dan's.  Of  course  I  listened  and  nodded  when  he  told 
me  that  the  boy  would  work  in  my  room ;  but  I  never 
have  acquired  much  faith  in  schemes  to  make  a  bad 
egg  fresh  and  sweet  again. 

The  big  thaw  had  set  in,  with  the  snow  running  down 
the  hills  to  make  the  town  a  wallow  of  mud,  and  my 
disposition  was  sullen  and  soggy,  like  the  weather,  so, 
as  I  said,  I  just  nodded  and  went  back  to  work. 

It  certainly  was  a  surprise  to  me  when  I  saw  the  lad ; 
he  was  thin  and  small  and  white,  like  a  potato  plant 
that  has  sprouted  in  the  cellar,  and  had  a  soft,  low 
voice.  His  eyes  looked  straight  into  yours,  but  they 
made  you  think  he  was  going  to  cry  any  minute,  until 
something  excited  him  or  caught  his  attention,  and  then 
they  always  made  me  think  of  the  eyes  of  a  cat  that 
sees  a  bird  out  in  the  back  yard. 

" Tommy,"  says  I,  "the  Boss  is  going  to  give  you  a 
snap,  and  my  job  is  to  give  you  some  work.  If  you  do 
the  work  I  give  you,  the  Boss  will  keep  passing  out  the 
snap." 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answers  respectfully.  "I'll  do  it, 
mister." 

"Do  you  like  it  here  in  the  country?  "  says  I. 

He  looked  at  me  quickly.     "  Sure,"  he  says.     "They 


92  JIM  HANDS 

had  me  dead  to  the  world  where  I  was.  A  feller  can't 
be  a  sport  there.  Say,  are  there  any  bears  in  them 
woods  —  what?"  And  that's  the  way  he'd  talk. 

For  a  week  he  worked  hard,  and  the  Boss  was  more 
pleased  than  if  we  had  been  shipping  two  hundred  cases 
a  day.  He  took  the  lad  aside  and  told  him  he  would 
give  him  a  shot-gun  and  a  fishing-rod  if  he  did  well. 
It  surprised  the  old  man  some  when  Tommy  reached 
into  his  hip  pocket,  pulled  out  a  revolver,  and  said  he 
thought  it  was  old  and  didn't  shoot  straight,  and  he'd 
rather  have  a  shot-gun,  anyhow.  The  Boss  told  him 
to  leave  the  revolver  in  the  office,  and  to  keep  off  the 
streets  at  night.  I  presume  he  thought  the  boy  would 
learn  vicious  ways  in  the  pool-room  and  on  the  street 
corners.  It  almost  makes  me  laugh  when  I  think  of  it, 
for  young  Cutts  knew  more  badness  than  any  one  of  the 
toughs  in  town  had  seen  in  dreams. 

No  one  who  was  in  the  cutting-room  the  day  that 
Thomas  broke  loose  for  the  first  time  ever  forgot  it ;  as 
far  as  any  of  us  are  concerned,  the  boy  became  what  you 
call  immortal.  Dave  Pierson,  who  cut  vamps,  started 
for  the  stitching-room  with  his  arms  full  of  scrap  pieces, 
and  when  he  passed  Tommy,  who  was  working  on  a 
trimming-machine,  the  boy  stepped  back  with  one  foot, 
and  Dave  sprawled  his  length  on  the  floor.  Some  of 
the  men  thought  it  was  done  intentionally,  but  I  never 
thought  so,  because  it  wasn't  like  the  boy  to  pass  out 
that  kind  of  meanness.  Anyhow,  he  looked  down, 


JIM  HANDS  93 

kinder  surprised,  and  says,  "Gee !  I  didn't  mean  to  do 
that." 

Dave  cursed  like  a  jail  warden  and,  before  he  got 
up  any  farther  than  his  knees,  you  could  see  he  meant 
to  take  it  out  of  the  boy.  I  yelled  to  him  to  stop,  but 
he  was  so  mad  he  couldn't  see.  Then  all  of  a  sudden 
I  heard  the  piping  voice  of  that  little  puny  rascal 
ringing  out  and  dying  back  into  his  throat. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  trip  you,  you  dummy! "  he  says, 
"and  if  you  touch  me  it'll  be  your  finish ! " 

Two  or  three  of  those  who  had  crowded  over  the 
benches  laughed,  because  it  was  funny  to  hear  such  a 
frail  youngster  getting  such  big  talk  out  of  his  system; 
then  Dave  caught  Cutts  across  the  face  with  his  open 
hand,  and  Cutts  went  down.  He  crawled  around  a 
pile  of  skins  quicker  than  a  rat,  and  struck  out  for 
Dave's  legs  like  a  snake  springs.  The  big  man  crumpled 
his  body  so  the  thin,  reaching  arms  of  the  boy  couldn't 
twine  around  him,  and  swung  heavily  with  his  right 
arm.  The  blow  landed  on  the  boy's  neck,  which  lay 
open  in  a  taut,  white  curve  from  his  flannel  shirt  to  the 
bristling  short  hair  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  then 
we  were  sure  it  was  all  done  for  Tommy  Cutts.  He 
lay  over  flat,  with  his  arms  limp  on  the  boards,  and  his 
face  all  in  a  twist  of  pain. 

I  never  saw  a  little  lad  look  so  much  like  an  old  man. 
"You've  done  it  now,  Dave,"  says  I,  with  my  tongue 
growing  dry.  "  Somebody  get  some  water.  You  stand 


94  JIM  HANDS 

there  like  a  pack  of  fools.  Get  water !  "  By  that  time 
the  door  of  the  stitching-room  was  full  of  girls,  all 
pushing  back  and  plucking  at  their  lips  with  their 
fingers,  now  that  everything  had  got  so  still  and  quiet. 
Some  of  the  men  looked  pretty  hard  at  big  Pierson, 
so  I  grabbed  a  pattern  mallet  and  motioned  them  back. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  I  heard  a  yell  behind  me  like  the 
cry  of  a  ferret. 

Tommy  Cutts  had  come  up  off  the  floor  as  if  springs 
were  under  him,  and  he  had  climbed  up  big  Pierson, 
reaching  for  his  throat  with  his  little  hands.  I've  never 
seen  fighting  that  could  touch  it,  and  in  my  young  days 
I've  been  in  many  a  teamster's  mill  myself.  It  was  like 
the  fuss  that  is  let  loose  when  a  high-gear  belting  flies 
into  strips  and  out  of  it  come  rattling  growls  of  pain. 
We  found  out,  a  minute  later,  when  the  boy  had  Dave 
on  the  floor  with  his  legs  twined  around  him,  and  his 
fingers  in  the  looseness  of  Dave's  neck,  which  one  of 
them  had  got  the  punishment. 

It  took  three  of  us  to  get  the  boy  loose.  For  a  while 
I  thought  we'd  need  a  derrick,  but  I  had  sense  enough 
to  reach  for  a  fire-pail  and  dump  the  water  on  the  boy. 

It  was  a  bad  affair  for  the  boy,  for,  although  neither 
he  nor  Dave  went  to  bed  for  it,  yet  it  tightened  up  the 
lad's  nerves  to  a  wilder  tune,  and  he  got  to  pay  less 
and  less  attention  to  work,  and  to  look  out  the  window 
more  and  more.  Finally  he  skipped  a  day,  and  came 
back  to  town  the  next  morning,  wet  and  silent,  like  a 


JIM  HANDS  95 

dog  that  has  spent  a  rainy  night  from  home.  He  never 
said  anything  to  a  living  soul,  except  the  little  gang  of 
the  toughest  boys  who  were  trying  hard  to  be  as  tough 
as  he,  and  he  talked  to  them  like  a  section  boss.  I  used 
to  hear  bits  of  news  of  what  he  was  doing  from  the  men 
in  my  room ;  but  I  never  told  the  Boss,  for  I  had  heard 
him  talk  about  the  glory  of  making  a  man,  and  I  knew 
he  would  know  the  blood  of  the  boy  all  in  good  time. 

There  was  another  person  besides  the  Boss  who  had  a 
ringer  on  Tommy,  and,  as  I've  said,  that  was  my  girl. 

I  never  knew  just  how  she  got  under  the  lad's  hide, 
but  it  might  have  been  because  she  was  strong  and 
healthy  and  liked  outdoors  and  owned  the  only  canoe 
the  town  had  seen  since  the  Indians,  which  she  bought 
with  money  she  made  embroidering.  Still,  it  would  sur 
prise  you  to  see  what  kind  of  things  the  boy,  who  was 
naturally  as  tough  as  a  man  who  eats  wire  nails,  would 
do  for  her,  —  he'd  walk  right  down  through  the  main 
street  in  the  town  with  a  bunch  of  some  kind  of  flowers 
for  her,  and  that  was  more  than  any  boy  I  ever  knew 
would  do  for  less  than  a  hundred  dollars.  Sometimes, 
on  Sunday,  that  summer,  the  two  of  them  would  go 
paddling  up  along  the  banks  in  the  canoe.  I  used  to 
wonder,  once  in  a  while,  how  he  ever  got  the  courage 
to  do  it,  until  I  remembered  that  no  one  in  forty  miles 
had  the  courage  to  make  fun  of  him. 

I  often  bothered  my  head,  when  I  was  at  work,  and 
would  look  over  at  the  stoop-shouldered  rascal,  to  know 


96  JIM  HANDS 

how  just  a  girl  had  so  much  influence  over  him.  Finally, 
one  day,  I  asked  him.  I  says  to  him,  "Tommy,  I've 
treated  you  pretty  square,  haven't  I  ?  I'd  like  to  have 
you  tell  me  why  you  like  Katherine." 

He  looked  at  me  kind  of  suspicious  and  wild,  like  a 
bird  when  you're  getting  near  its  nest. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  says  he.  It  was  the  first 
time  he'd  talked  to  me  that  way;  but  in  a  minute  he 
turned  aside  from  his  work,  leaned  with  his  back 
against  the  bench,  and  then  passed  out  more  talk  than 
I  ever  heard  him  do  before,  for  he  was  the  silent 
kind. 

"She  is  the  real  thing,"  he  says,  "and  she's  on  the 
level.  No  Sunday-school  talk  from  her.  Just  straight 
goods.  She  listens  to  what  I  give  her,  and  hands  back 
a  line  that's  kind  of  different.  Now  there's  the  Boss. 
He  talks  to  me  as  if  I  didn't  know  twice  as  much  as  him, 
and  he  makes  me  tired.  He's  like  them  people  in  the 
city  —  dreaming.  Look  at  those  men  around  this  room. 
What  do  they  do?  Nothing.  Seven  o'clock  to  work. 
Six  back  again  —  sleep  and  eat,  see  ?  What's  that  ? 
I'd  rather  be  a  crook  than  that.  See  this  collar  I  got 
on  ?  The  Boss  makes  me  wear  that,  and  what  use  is  it  ? 
Ain't  no  use.  I'll  never  get  my  face  in  the  papers  for 
wearing  it."  The  lad  crossed  his  thin  white  arms,  and 
waited  for  an  answer.  I  knew  his  mind  well  enough; 
it  was  the  kind  that  grows  like  a  weed  grows  when  you 
haven't  hoed  the  garden. 


JIM  HANDS  97 

"She  don't  pass  out  no  lectures/'  he  went  on.  "She 
tells  me  things  —  see  ?  " 

I  happened  to  think  of  the  flowers,  and  I  says,  "  I  saw 
you  Thursday,"  I  says. 

"With  a  bunch  of  asters,"  says  he.  "Sure!  What 
for  ?  Suppose  you  wanted  a  package  of  cigarettes,  and 
I  says  to  you,  '  I'll  bring  you  a  package  when  I  come  in 
at  one';  you  says,  'Thanks.'  Maybe  you  wants  ciga 
rettes,  so  I  bring  'em  to  you  —  see  ?  Maybe  she  wants 
asters  —  I  bring  'em  to  her.  That's  all." 

Still  I  hadn't  found  out  what  I  had  asked  about,  so  I 
gave  him  the  question  direct  enough.  "Thomas," 
says  I,  "I  guess  you  like  Katherine  because  she  treats 
you  like  a  full-grown  man  - 

"Forget  it !  "  says  he.  "That's  the  kind  of  fake  the 
old  man  puts  up  to  me.  Nothing  in  that." 

"Does  she  treat  you  like  a  kid?  "  says  I. 

"No  !    That's  what  you  fellers  would  like  to  do.     She 
makes  me  feel  like  Thomas  Q.  Cutts,  fourteen  years  old 
-  myself  —  me !  " 

I  saw  then,  and  I  saw  that  my  girl  had  more  sense 
than  any  of  us.    There  are  some  women  like  that  - 
they  see  things  I  don't. 

And  it  was  only  a  few  mornings  after  the  Durn  Fool's 
baby  was  born  that  the  fun  began.  I've  often  wondered 
whether,  if  they'd  left  young  Cutts  alone  with  Katherine, 
how  he'd  have  come  out.  I  rather  think  he  was  doing 
better  already  when  the  trouble  came. 


98  JIM  HANDS 

Monday  morning  he  slinked  in,  looking  tired,  like  a 
hound  that's  been  all  day  on  a  fox-trail,  and  with  a  red 
welt  across  his  white  face.  About  eleven  o'clock  a 
horse  and  buggy  came  over  the  hill  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 
It  was  the  sheriff,  covered  with  sweat  and  mud.  He 
came  up  the  stairs  two  at  a  time,  and  into  the  room  with 
a  rush. 

' '  Where's  the  Cutts  boy  ?  "  he  yells. 

"Here  I  am,  you  shrimp  !  "  came  the  same  old  piping 
shriek.  "Take  your  hands  off  that  pocket,  or  I'll  blow 
you  open."  The  lad  was  backed  into  a  corner,  with  a 
big  black  revolver  in  his  skinny  little  fist,  and  his  eyes 
staring. 

"They  found  out  who  did  it,"  he  says,  with  a  grunt. 
"Then  stand  still,  you  suckers,  for  I'm  going  to  clean 
out."  The  little  rascal  waved  his  gun  around,  and  I 
guess  we  all  ducked.  His  eyes  were  mighty  prompt  - 
looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  and  Gleason,  the 
sheriff,  standing  with  his  hands  up,  in  front  of  the 
packing-boxes.  The  lad  had  nearly  got  to  the  door 
when  Dave  Pierson  saw  his  chance,  and  reached  out 
from  behind  a  cutting-block  and  banged  the  boy's 
wrist  with  a  pattern  mallet. 

The  gun  went  off  as  it  flew  out  of  his  hands,  and 
then  there  was  smoke  and  yells  and  the  screams  of  the 
women  in  the  stitching-room.  Tommy  Cutts  shot 
like  a  black  shadow  between  the  lines  of  machines, 
cursing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  The  sheriff  headed  him 


JIM  HANDS  99 

off  at  the  door,  and  before  we  could  see  what  he  was 
going  to  do,  he  had  swung  himself  out  one  of  the  windows 
above  the  river,  let  himself  hang  for  a  second,  and  drop. 

It  was  three  stories  to  the  river,  and  the  water  was 
shallow  in  places,  with  brown,  slimy  rocks  poking  up. 
But  the  boy  had  the  luck  of  a  devil,  and  when  we 
looked  out  he  was  swimming  with  strong  overhand 
strokes  across  the  still  place  above  the  lower  dam. 

"Stop,  or  I'll  shoot,"  yelled  Gleason  out  of  the  win 
dow.  The  boy's  voice  answered  shrill  and  echoing 
from  the  trees. 

"Gwan,  you  dope!"  says  he,  dripping  on  the  other 
bank. 

Of  course,  then  we  were  anxious  enough  to  know 
what  the  lad  had  done,  so  Gleason  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
mopping  his  fat  old  face,  and  told  us  they  wanted  the 
boy  for  an  attempt  to  murder.  He  had  been  partridge 
shooting  on  the  Knox  Farm  out  on  the  East  Road.  It 
was  Sunday,  and  all  the  Knox  people  had  driven  in  to 
church  except  Knox  himself,  who  was  a  hot-tempered 
old  fool,  and  had  caught  the  lad  and  cursed  him  for 
breaking  the  game-laws,  and  had  taken  him  to  the  barn 
and  horsewhipped  him.  I  didn't  blame  young  Cutts, 
for  I'd  have  done  it  myself,  but  the  boy  had  seen  his 
chance,  grabbed  an  axe,  and  buried  it  clear  through 
Knox's  collar-bone.  Then  he  left  Knox  the  way  he 
somehow  managed  to  leave  all  others  who  tried  the 
weight  of  their  hand  upon  him  —  spread  out  like  an 


100  JIM  HANDS 

empty  meal -sack  on  the  ground.  Cutts  had  thought 
Knox  was  done  for  for  good  and  all,  and  I  believe  he 
came  to  work  confident  that  no  one  would  ever  find 
it  out.  But  the  farmer  wasn't  so  badly  hurt,  and  he 
came  to  and  whined  the  whole  story  into  the  doctor's 
ears  before  the  stitches  were  taken. 

Heaven  knows  the  law  was  slow  enough  in  this  fly 
bitten  settlement,  but  it  was  dowrnright  funny  to  see 
Gleason  go  out  to  chase  after  the  little  lad  —  it  was  no 
more  use  than  setting  a  mouse-trap  to  catch  mosquitoes. 
I  watched  him  go  over  the  hill  again,  and  then  went 
back  to  work.  But  I  didn't  feel  good.  I  knew  reform 
was  all  over  for  the  Cutts  boy,  and  although  he  was  a 
bad  product  —  well,  there's  no  accounting  for  likes  and 
dislikes,  and  Tommy  had  had  a  poor  show  from  the  first 
inning. 

The  Boss  came  up  when  the  sheriff  was  gone.     He 

was  excited  and  hot.     "Jim,"  says  he  to  me,  dodging 

my  eyes,  "I  know  now  all  about  the  trouble,  and  the 

boy  was  fooling  me  all  along.     I  feel  exceedingly  bitter 

-  exceedingly  bitter !  "  he  says. 

That's  what  he  said,  and  he  had  hardly  gone  when  the 
office  telephone  rang,  and  they  told  me  Katherine  was 
waiting  for  me  downstairs. 

"Dad,"  says  she,  "what  has  become  of  Tommy?" 
Her  eyes  was  big  and  earnest. 

"The  last  I  saw  of  him,  he'd  just  landed  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,"  I  says. 


JIM  HANDS  101 

"It's  a  shame,"  she  says.  "If  I  could  only  see  him ! 
I  heard  about  it  all,  and  came  down  here.  He  acted 
in  self-defence  —  that's  the  law.  If  I  could  speak  to 
him,  he  would  give  himself  up  —  he  would  do 
what  I  tell  him." 

''Girl,"  says  I,  "it  isn't  the  boy,  it's  the  blood  of  his 
mother  and  his  grandmother  that's  ailing  him.  Do 
you  mind  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  that's  an  easy  way  to  convict  him,"  she  says, 
with  her  head  thrown  back.  "You  expect  to  treat  the 
boy  as  if  he  were  cut  out  of  different  material  from  us. 
And  then,  when  you  fail,  you  give  him  up  the  way  you'd 
give  away  a  dog  because  he's  snapped  at  a  neighbor  who 
has  kicked  him !  " 

Her  eyes  had  fire  in  'em,  but  it  took  me  several  min 
utes  after  she'd  gone  to  admit  to  myself  she  was 
right. 

And  then,  during  the  next  few  days,  came  the  big 
fall  rainstorm.  There  were  lots  of  water,  and  the  river 
swelled  fatter  and  fatter,  and  Friday  morning  the  dam 
above  the  Crocker  Mill  went  out.  It  was  wild  weather, 
and  I  couldn't  help  feeling  sorry  for  the  little  lad  who 
must  have  been  hiding  somewhere  in  the  woods,  like  a 
beast  without  a  home. 

About  the  time  we  were  shutting  up  for  the  night,  on 
Saturday,  Mrs.  Barker's  little  boy  came  running  up 
along  the  river-bank,  shouting  for  help. 

"Somebody's  drowning,"  he  yells.     Most  of  the  men 


102  JIM  HANDS 

pulled  their  hats  over  their  ears  and  went  into  the  teeth 
of  the  storm,  along  the  river-bank. 

The  rain  was  cutting  down  and  stinging  like  a  wasp, 
and  filled  your  eyes  so  that  everything  looked  like  it 
does  when  you  get  a  crack  on  the  head.  The  river  was 
writhing  like  a  snake  on  a  stove ;  way  out  in  the  middle 
we  could  see  a  white  and  black  patch  wedged  in  between 
two  boulders.  It  was  a  human  being,  all  right,  but  I'll 
be  blest  if  you  could  tell  whether  it  was  a  man,  woman, 
or  Baptist,  in  that  storm. 

"Who  is  it?"  says  I  to  the  Barker  boy,  who  was 
standing  scared  and  still  at  my  heels. 

"I  don't  know,"  says  he.  "I  seen  her  fall  in  when  she 
was  trying  to  catch  a  canoe  that  had  broke  loose." 

"Here,  get  a  rope!"  I  yells,  trying  to  think  what  I 
would  do  with  it  when  it  came,  for  no  man  would  dare 
risk  his  life  on  a  journey  out  to  the  middle  of  that  boiling 
current.  The  girl  out  there  turned  her  head  once,  and 
gave  a  scream  that  you  could  hear  for  all  the  rush  of 
water  and  wind.  "It's  all  over,"  thinks  I.  And  then 
I  heard  a  voice  behind  me  in  a  high,  rattling  scream. 
* '  Give  me  that  rope,  you  lobster !  That  girl  is  my  pal ! ' ' 
It  was  Tommy  Cutts. 

Before  we  caught  on  to  the  trick,  the  boy  had  taken  a 
half  hitch  beneath  his  armpits,  and  was  wading  out  in 
the  broth,  a  hundred  feet  up  the  stream.  We  held  the 
other  end  of  the  rope,  more  because  he  had  told  us  to 
than  because  of  any  sense  we  had.  In  a  couple  of 


JIM  HANDS  103 

seconds  the  rascal  was  in  the  current,  with  his  legs  and 
arms  reaching  around  and  clawing  the  water. 

" He'll  miss  her,"  hollers  one  man.  "Sure  death!" 
whispers  another. 

"What  girl  is  it?  "I  says.  "She's  done  for,"  I  says. 
But  the  luck  of  a  devil  was  on  the  boy  —  he  landed 
against  the  outside  boulder  with  a  crunch,  only  you 
couldn't  hear  it,  and  he  was  reaching  for  the  girl  with  his 
little  hands.  There  was  no  use  —  the  nerves  of  a  man 
had  to  let  loose,  and  we  gave  a  yell  when  we  seen  he  had 
made  the  loose  end  of  the  rope  fast  around  her  body. 
We  pulled  them  in,  each  one  of  them  knowing  as  much 
as  another  —  nothing !  And  the  woman  was  lying  face 
down  for  a  second,  all  limp  like  an  empty  sack,  with 
""her  hair  all  wet  and  covering  her  neck,  and  trickles  of 
blood  on  her  hands.  I  turned  her  over  myself,  and  it 
was  my  girl ! 

I  could  hear  the  blood  pounding  in  my  head  as  I 
looked  at  her.  She  was  so  white  and  lay  so  still.  But 
it  was  only  a  second.  Then  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
caught  up  a  breath,  and  I  seen  her  lungs  fill,  and  I 
knew  she  was  still  alive.  And  then  I  saw  Charlie  Ward, 
the  doctor,  who  had  stopped  his  buggy  down  there  by 
the  bridge  and  come  running,  and  I  heard  him  say, 
"Well,  is  the  boy  alive,  too ?  " 

So  I  looked  behind  me,  and  I  seen  there  was  a  soft, 
red  place  on  the  boy's  forehead.  The  doctor  said  he 
might  pull  through  all  right.  I  was  told  that  they 


104  JIM  HANDS 

carried  him,  neck  and  heels,  and  all  sagging  between, 
up  to  the  Thorntons'  house,  and  they  stretched  him  out 
on  a  sheet  no  whiter  than  he,  and  the  doctor  says,  "  He'll 
be  up  in  a  few  days.  That  kind  of  lad  is  hard  to  put 
away."  But  the  boy  went  a  long  way  past  that. 

Of  course  I  went  with  my  girl.  My  Annie  had  come 
home  that  day,  and  it  was  a  shock  to  her  when  we 
brought  Katherine  up  to  the  back  door  with  the  light 
gone  from  her  skin  and  them  brown  eyes  turned  the  color 
of  lead. 

We  didn't  know  then  that  she  would  be  in  a  fever 
before  the  night  was  over,  and  what  we  would  have  to 
bear.  I  can  see  her  now  lying  on  the  bed  in  the  front 
room.  I  remember  it  was  still  raining,  with  a  lot  of 
wind  rattling  the  blinds,  and  water  slapping  on  the 
windows,  and  Annie  holding  the  lamp  and  the  wet  clothes 
scattered  on  the  floor.  But  Katherine  opened  her  eyes 
and  give  a  little  smile  and  says,  "I'm  all  right,"  as  if  she 
was  waking  out  of  a  dream,  and  then  she  started  up 
once  and  says,  "Tommy  Cutts!  How  is  he?"  So  I 
told  her  he  was  all  right,  and  she  smiled  again  and  says, 
"Don't  let  them  arrest  him,"  she  says,  and  dropped 
back  sort  of  weak,  the  way  a  toy  balloon  acts  when 
there's  a  leak  in  it. 

It  was  near  nine  o'clock  when  the  knock  came.  I 
knew  it  weren't  the  doctor,  for  I'd  left  him  upstairs 
looking  at  one  of  them  miserable  little  thermometers 
and  shaking  his  head,  with  my  Annie  and  little  Michael 


JIM  HANDS  105 

watching  him  with  both  their  eyes  as  big  as  buttons  on 
an  overcoat.  When  I  opened  the  front  door,  there  was 
a  young  feller  dripping  with  water,  and  kinder  white. 
And  I  seen  it  was  Bob  Harvey. 

"I  just  heard  about  the  accident,"  he  says.  "How 
is  she,  Mr.  Hands?  I  had  to  come.  You  don't  under 
stand.  Maybe  she  won't  understand,  either.  I  guess 
she  won't.  I've  got  to  see  her." 

Right  then  I  heard  the  doctor's  voice  as  Annie  was 
letting  him  out  the  back  door  on  to  the  driveway.  "I'll 
be  back  in  an  hour,"  says  the  voice.  "You  asked  if 
there  was  danger,  and  I'm  going  to  be  honest  with 
you,  —  there  is  some  danger."  I  remember  them 
words  was  like  hatpins  running  into  a  feller's  ears,  and 
I  found  I  had  my  hand  grabbing  young  Harvey's  arm, 
and  his  hand  was  on  my  wrist.  I  could  feel  them  fingers. 
He  must  have  had  muscles  like  strips  of  rawhide. 

"I've  got  to  see  her,"  he  says,  breathing  hard.  "I 
can't  tell  you  any  more.  I've  got  to  see  her !  Do  you 
hear  me  ? "  He  pulled  me  over  under  the  light,  and 
moved  close  to  me  and  looked  square  into  my  eyes. 

"Do  you  understand?  "  he  says. 

"Go  on  up,"  says  I. 

So  I  followed  him  up  the  stairs,  and  we  went  in.  He 
went  right  over  to  her.  Her  eyes  were  half  open,  and 
she  smiled  again,  and  her  hand  kind  of  crept  out,  with 
her  fingers  moving. 

"Bob ! "  she  whispers. 


106  JIM  HANDS 

"  You  ain't  going  to  die ! "  says  he.  "  You  listen  to 
me,  Katherine,"  he  says.  "You  will  fight! "and  he 
took  hold  of  her  hand  and  bent  down  and  shut  his  teeth 
with  that  same  look  I  seen  once  before  on  his  face  when 
he  was  a  boy  and  was  hurt  playing  football  and  got  up 
and  shook  his  head. 

It  was  strange.  It  was  just  as  if  he  had  some  kind  of 
strength  he  could  give  to  her.  You  could  almost  think 
the  blood  was  running  through  his  lips  into  her  hand. 
You  could  almost  think  you  saw  the  color  come  back 
into  her  cheeks.  And  she  even  moved  and  looked  at  her 
hand  pressed  against  his  cheek,  as  if  it  was  something 
she  wanted  to  see. 

"I  didn't  know  you  liked  me,"  she  whispers,  and 
smiled  a  little. 

"Like  you?"  he  says,  without  paying  any  attention 
to  me.  "Like  you?  Why,  girl,  I  love  you,"  he  says. 

And  with  that  she  moved  her  hand  and  touched  his 
hair,  kind  of  gentle,  and  then  there  was  a  second  of 
woman's  devilment  in  her  face,  and  she  said,  "I  don't 
know  exactly  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  you,"  she 
says ;  and  she  give  a  happy  little  sigh  and  went  into  a 
sleep  again,  with  her  lips  moving,  and  that  dark  red  hair 
of  hers  all  around  her  head  on  the  white  pillow,  and  the 
wind  howling  away  outside  and  rattling  the  blinds. 

The  boy  got  up  then.  He  looked  at  Annie,  who  had 
come  in  with  some  medicine  on  a  tray,  and  he  looked  at 
me,  but  he  didn't  say  anything.  He  just  went  away. 


JIM  HANDS  107 

He  just  went  down  the  stairs,  and  I  heard  the  door  shut, 
and  I  looked  out  the  window  and  seen  the  feller  rushing 
out  of  sight  through  the  storm. 

He  came  back  the  next  morning.  Katherine  had  been 
worse.  I  had  figured  I  ought  to  go  to  find  out  some 
thing  about  Tommy  Cutts,and  I  seen  Bob  Harvey  going 
in  as  I  went  out  from  the  barn  driveway.  I  had  a  heavy 
lump  of  feeling  in  me.  Something  told  me  Katherine 
wasn't  going  to  live. 

When  I  got  down  to  the  Thorntons',  where  they'd 
taken  the  Cutts  boy,  I  found  the  Old  Boss  was  there. 
Tommy  was  sitting  up  on  one  of  them  tough  elbows  of 
his,  and  looking  at  the  Boss  with  eyes  shining  like  rats' 
eyes. 

"I've  been  to  the  bad  and  I've  just  come  out  of  it," 
he  says.  "Tell  me  straight,"  he  says  to  the  Boss,  "was 
it  her  finish?" 

"No,"  says  the  old  man.     "I  guess  not." 

"Well,  then,"  says  the  boy,  "why  don't  you  thank 
me? "  he  says.  "They  can  go  on  and  maybe  get  mar 
ried  or  something,"  he  says. 

I  guess  the  Boss  thought  the  boy  was  still  out  of  his 
head.  "Who?"  he  says,  with  half  a  smile. 

"Why,  the  girl  and  your  son,"  says  Tommy.  "It's 
an  awful  case,"  he  says.  "The  lady  was  a  friend  of  mine, 
anyway,"  he  says,  with  a  grin,  "and  your  son  ain't  so 
bad,  and  I  wouldn't  knock  him,  anyway.  I  promised 
her  I  wouldn't  —  see  ?  " 


108  JIM  HANDS 

I  seen  the  surprise  in  the  Boss's  eyes.  I  seen  him  shut 
his  two  fists  and  kind  of  bite  his  lips  under  that  gray 
mustache  of  his.  But  he  only  said,  "I'm  coming  to 
see  you  again,  young  man,"  he  says.  "You  did  some 
thing  mighty  good,  after  all,"  he  says,  and  smiled  at  the 
two  of  us  and  went  out. 

But  he  didn't  see  Tommy  Cutts  again.  For  the  next 
morning,  when  Mrs.  Thornton  went  in  to  look  at  him  at 
six  o'clock,  he  had  gone,  and  so  had  ten  dollars  in  the 
sitting-room  desk  and  a  revolver,  too. 

The  news  was  around  town  before  breakfast  on  Sun 
day,  and  fifty  men  and  boys  went  out  to  look  for  the 
lad  —  not  so  much  because  of  the  ten  dollars  as  because 
the  doctor  said  he  would  die  in  the  woods. 

It  was  funny  that  I  should  have  been  the  one  to  have 
found  him.  He  was  sneaking  along  the  stone  wall  in 
Parker  Dun's  pasture.  When  he  saw  me,  he  started 
for  the  woods  like  a  trailed  fox,  and  I  nearly  did  my 
self  out  of  my  lungs  chasing  him.  When  he  had  got 
near  the  edge  of  the  woods,  he  turned  on  me. 

"Come  back,  you  fool,"  I  yelled. 

"You  want  to  put  me  in  the  cooler,"  he  screamed. 
"If  you  come  any  nearer,  I'll  blow  your  head  off."  He 
had  the  gun  well  enough,  and  I  still  had  a  good  many 
years  to  live. 

He  turned  slowly,  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
and  limped  into  the  woods.  He  was  the  toughest 
human  creature  I  ever  saw.  I  remember  how  blue 


JIM  HANDS  109 

his  eyes    looked,  and  how  his  thin   shoulders   slanted 
down. 

They  told  me  that  there  were  fifty  miles  of  timber 
land  before  you  get  to  so  much  as  another  lumber 
camp.  They  said  that  no  boy  or  man  could  get  out  of 
the  place  alive,  and  yet  I'd  bet  my  salary  —  and  I  get 
a  good  one  now  —  that  Tommy  Cutts  did  it.  He  had 
more  lives  than  a  litter  of  kittens. 


CHAPTER   IX 

SOMETIMES  a  feller  don't  know  how  to  move,  and  so  he 
don't  move.  And  in  all  them  days  when  Katherine  was 
getting  well,  and  the  Boss's  son  was  coming  to  see  her,  I 
never  told  anybody,  not  even  my  Annie,  that  the  Boss 
knew;  and  he  never  said  anything  to  me,  and  it  was 
hanging  over  us  all. 

The  Old  Boss  is  pretty  human.  He  has  his  tender 
side,  so  to  speak,  and  his  hard  side,  and  in  them  weeks 
that  followed  there  was  one  girl  that  showed  up  the  first 
and  another  showed  up  the  second. 

One  day  the  Boss  sent  for  me  to  come  to  his  office. 
He  met  me  just  outside  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 
He's  an  ugly,  good-hearted  old  bear  in  business  hours, 
with  his  gray  hair  all  mussed  up  and  his  clothes  all  baggy, 
just  as  if  he  was  as  poor  as  one  of  them  yellow-headed 
Finns  who  tack  heels  in  the  basement. 

"Jim,"  says  he,  "talk  quick!  You  said  you'd  like 
to  get  a  girl  to  paste  linings,"  he  says.  "Do  you  still 
want  one?" 

"I  do,"  says  I,  "if  I  can  get  one  who  won't  always  be 
grinning  and  laughing  like  the  last  one,"  I  says  —  "that 
freckle-faced  Casey  girl,"  I  says. 

With  that  the  Boss  let  his  face  slide  to  a  smile. 

no 


JIM   HANDS  111 

" Here's  one  in  my  office,"  he  says,  "that  looks  as  if 
she  wouldn't  laugh  for  a  hundred  dollars.  And  she 
ain't  got  freckles.  Take  a  look  at  her  and  see  if  she'll 
suit  yer,"  he  says. 

So  with  that  I  walked  into  the  office,  and  at  first  I 
scarcely  noticed  her.  She  was  one  of  these  people  that 
fades  into  the  landscape  of  a  room  like  them  lizards  that 
change  color.  You've  seen  that  kind.  'Tis  hard  to 
pay  more  attention  to  'em  than  to  the  gas-bracket 
on  the  wall  or  the  pattern  on  the  carpet. 

"Miss  Jennie  Lyons,"  says  the  Boss,  and  with  that  I 
heard  one  of  them  little  "Oh,  my's !"  that  sounds  as  if 
it  come  out  of  somebody  you'd  have  to  see  under  a 
microscope,  or  whatever  yer  call  it.  And  when  I  turned 
I  seen  she  was  kinder  small.  It  weren't  her  size  so 
much,  but  she  made  me  think  of  a  mouse  in  a  trap, 
scared  and  begging  on  its  hind  legs,  and  maybe  she  was 
twenty-two  years  old. 

We'd  had  that  stretch  of  rain,  and  the  little  thing  was 
wet,  and  everything  drooped  and  clung  around  her,  and 
there  was  a  couple  of  wet  sprouts  of  hair  sticking  down 
on  her  cheeks  kinder  like  a  picture-frame  for  her  solemn, 
big-eyed  little  face. 

Something  inside  of  me  says,  "Jim  Hands,  she's  no 
good,  and  you  know  it,  but  you'll  hire  her  just  the  same." 

"Have  yer  had  experience  cutting?  "  I  says. 

She  looks  at  me,  and  her  under  lip  commences  to  flip- 
flip  like  my  little  John's  when  I  speak  cross  to  him. 


112  JIM  HANDS 

"Have  ye?  "  says  I  again. 

"Oh,  no,  sir !  "  says  she,  so  soft  yer  could  hardly  know 
whether  she  was  talking  or  licking  her  lips. 

"What's  been  your  experience?  "  I  says. 

"General  housework,"  says  she,  and  I  seen  the  Boss's 
thick  nose  wrinkle  up  like  the  front  of  a  wash-board. 

"That'll  be  useful,"  says  I. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  says,  with  her  little  mouth  open,  and 
them  big,  round,  brown  eyes  still  looking  at  me  as 
surprised  as  if  my  face  was  a  moving-picture  show. 
"Yes,  sir,"  she  says,  "and  I  was  a  waitress  over  at  the 
summer  hotel  at  the  Springs,  but  I  weren't  strong  enough 
for  the  work,"  she  says.  "And  I  wrote  a  letter  to  my 
Aunt  Abbie,  for  she's  all  the  folks  I  got,  and  asked  her 
if  I  might  come  home ;  and  she  wrote  ter  me  and  told 
me  to  get  a  job  in  a  factory." 

I  felt  then  that  I  had  small  chance  of  heaven  if  I 
turned  her  down.  But  I  tried  to  think  of  a  way  to  tell 
her  that  she  wouldn't  do.  It  stuck  in  my  throat  like 
a  fishbone.  So  I  says,  "Come  down  here  at  eight 
to-morrow,"  I  says,  and  out  she  went  like  somebody 
who's  heard  bad  news. 

The  Boss  looks  up  at  me  and  brings  his  thick  fist  down 
on  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

"Jim,"  says  he,  "I  make  it  a  rule  to  have  no  senti 
ment  in  business,"  says  he.  "We  didn't  want  her.  I 
knew  she  wouldn't  do,  the  moment  I  laid  my  eyes  on 
her.  She  ain't  fitted  fer  industrial  life,"  says  he. 


JIM   HANDS  113 

" Hereafter,  follow  my  rule/'  he  says:  "No  sentiment 
in  business.  I  knew  she  weren't  any  good,  the  minute 
I  seen  her." 

"But  yer  sent  for  me  to  talk  with  her,"  I  says. 

He  ran  his  finger  around  his  collar  and  got  red  and 
coughed  and  moved  his  feet.  "Did  I?"  he  says. 
"Well,  I  thought  you'd  have  enough  backbone  to  turn 
her  down,"  says  he.  "No  sentiment  in  business," 
he  says.  "If  she  don't  make  out  with  the  work,  fire 
her,"  says  he,  growling.  "Send  her  down  to  me." 

"All  right,  sir,"  says  I,  not  wishing  to  say  more; 
and  the  next  morning  Jennie  come  in  a  half  hour  late. 
She  looks  around  the  room  with  her  big  eyes  and  pretty, 
pale  face,  and  backed  over  to  a  cutting-bench  where  I 
had  sorted  out  an  armful  of  the  patterns,  which  took 
me  an  hour,  and  she  leans  on  the  board  before  I  could 
stop  her,  and  the  whole  business  comes  down  on  to  the 
floor,  all  sizes  and  shapes  mixed  up  together,  and  noise 
enough  to  make  a  snail  jump  through  a  barrel-hoop. 

"Oh !  "  says  she,  crouching  down  as  if  somebody  was 
going  to  hit  her.  "Ain't  that  like  me?  "  she  says. 

"I  couldn't  say,"  says  I.  "Not  yet.  Yer  made  a 
good  beginning  by  being  late  the  first  morning." 

And  with  that  her  lips  begins  to  go  flip-flip,  and  when 
she'd  hung  up  her  things  in  the  coat-room  and  come 
out,  I  seen  her  eyes  was  red  and  her  little  hands  was 
shaking. 

"Your  job  is  simple,"  says  I.     "Take  these  linings," 


114  JIM  HANDS 

I  says,  "and  paste  glue  on  one  side  of  'em/'  I  says. 
"Here's  a  bell,  and  the  boy  will  come  in  from  the  stitch- 
ing-room  for  'em  when  you've  got  a  lot  done,"  says  I. 

It  weren't  ten  minutes  after  that  the  bell  rang,  and 
when  I  went  to  see  I  finds  she's  pasted  only  three ! 
The  next  time  she'd  done  a  case  of  them,  but  they  were 
all  on  the  wrong  side  —  rights  and  lefts  mixed  up.  So 
it  went,  and  when  the  day  come  to  an  end  she  run  like  a 
mouse  after  her  little  black  coat.  But  the  next  morning 
in  comes  Jennie  Lyons  a  good  hour  late  again,  and  with 
her  she  brought  one  of  them  little  white  and  black  cur 
dogs  that  yer  see  hanging  around  the  alley  back  of  the 
town  hall ;  and  he  was  so  thin  you  could  almost  see  the 
grain  of  the  wood  through  him  when  he'd  lie  down 
on  the  floor,  and  now  and  then  he'd  look  around  the 
room  and  let  out  one  of  them  forsaken  yelps  of  his  that 
sounded  like  disease  and  death. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hands,"  says  Jennie,  with  her  brown  eyes 
as  big  as  saucers  and  all  out  of  breath.  "He  followed 
me  all  the  way  down,"  she  says.  "Poor  little  thing," 
she  says.  "Half  starved,"  she  says.  "Listen  to  him 
cry !  And  I'm  going  out  now  to  get  him  something  to 
eat,  and  bring  him  and  put  him  under  the  bench  by  the 
glue-heater,"  says  she.  "He  can  come  to  work  with  me 
every  day,"  says  she. 

"Dogs  ain't  allowed  in  the  factory,"  I  says,  thinking 
of  the  Boss's  words.  "We  want  no  sentiment  in  busi 
ness  !  "  I  says,  kinder  sharp. 


JIM   HANDS  115 

With  that  the  dog  sticks  his  pointed  face  up  at  me, 
with  his  loose,  moth-eaten  ears  drooping  over,  and  lets 
out  one  of  his  whoops.  And  Jennie  looks  at  me  and  then 
at  the  dog,  and  I  seen  her  under  lip  droop  down  and 
begin  to  flip-flip  again.  It  made  a  man  feel  kinder  like 
a  graveyard  in  a  thunderstorm.  I  seen  her  big  eyes 
getting  watery,  and  she  drew  a  breath  and  let  it  loose  in 
instalments,  like  it  hurt  her  chest  to  let  go  of  it. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  weak  and  foolish.  "There's  a 
ham  sandwich  in  the  paper  up  there  on  that  shelf,"  I 
says-.  "  Twas  intended  for  me,  but  give  it  to  the  little 
dog,"  says  I,  "and  say  no  more  about  it,"  I  says. 

I  thought  to  myself  that,  once  fed,  the  ratty  little 
beast  would  run  away  from  her;  but  it  weren't  so.  He 
stuck  to  her  like  a  burr  on  a  woollen  stocking,  with  his 
little  sore  eyes  and  his  sniffles  and  scratching  himself. 
She  couldn't  do  her  work  for  watching  him  and  patting 
his  head  and  throwing  everything  inter  a  panic  when 
somebody 'd  trip  over  him  and  start  him  yipping  and 
screaming  around  the  big  room  till  your  ear-drums  would 
think  that  ten  fleas  was  having  Virginia  reel  upon  them. 

On  Thursday  of  that  week  Jennie  turned  over  the 
whole  pot  of  glue.  It  was  enough  to  make  a  saint  eat 
his  halo,  for  of  all  the  sticky,  slow-moving  stuff,  that 
paste  will  make  an  honorable  mention  and  walk  away 
with  a  prize  for  smell !  But,  as  luck  would  have  it,  the 
blooming  pup  —  Caesar,  she'd  called  him  —  was  lying 
asleep  at  her  feet,  and  all  of  the  hot  stuff  spilled  on  him. 


116  JIM  HANDS 

He  opened  his  face  and  let  out  a  yelp  that  nearly  pushed 
out  the  winder.  And  with  that  he  started  out  of  the 
puddle,  streaking  it  over  the  piles  of  sheepskin,  with  a 
blanket  of  glue  dragging  out  as  he  went,  doing  damage 
to  leather  at  the  rate  of  about  ten  dollars  a  yard  and  cut 
ting  his  circles  around  the  room  in  a  way  to  surprise 
yer  for  a  dog  of  his  size.  I'll  never  ferget  seeing  the  girl 
watching  him  go,  with  never  a  word,  and  her  soft  eyes 
frightened  and  staring. 

On  the  fourth  time  around  Csesar  made  up  his  mind  it 
was  time  to  stop  and  think,  and  he  chose  a  box  of  thread 
belonging  to  the  stitching-room  to  sit  in.  With  his 
fore  feet  he  tried  to  wipe  the  stuff  out  of  his  eyes,  and 
then  he  looks  at  me  and  lets  out  another  sticky  yelp. 

"Talk  is  cheap,  old  scout,"  says  Dave  Pierson,  ad 
dressing  the  cur.  ' '  And  you'd  better  keep  moving  while 
yer  can  move,"  he  says.  "For  I'm  thinking  of  making 
a  tobacco-pouch  of  your  hide,"  he  says,  "ter  remind 
me  of  what  yer  just  did  to  the  back  of  my  pants'  legs 
when  yer  passed  me  by,"  he  says. 

And  it  seemed  as  if  the  dog  understood  him  all  right, 
for  he  started  off  again,  rubbing  up  against  every  corner 
and  anything  he  could  lean  against  to  take  off  the  glue. 
You  know  how  a  dog  does.  And  every  now  and  then, 
even  after  all  this  time,  I  still  find  sticky  places  around 
the  room  where  he  scraped  himself. 

"'Twould  be  a  blessing  if  he'd  find  the  door,"  says 
Eddie  Murphy,  "for,  ter  tell  the  truth,"  says  he,  "this 


JIM  HANDS  117 

room,  large  as  it  is,  seems  six  feet  by  six  with  him  in  it," 
he  says,  and  with  that  the  dog  goes  by  him,  and  he 
looks  up  to  be  sure  Jennie  didn't  see  him,  and  he  lifts 
the  beast  with  his  foot  out  into  the  hallway.  "And 
now  look  at  them  fancy  socks  of  mine  !  "  says  he. 

Well,  you  that  have  never  been  foreman  of  a  room 
knows  nothing  of  the  way  a  riot  like  that  will  break 
up  the  work.  Glue  was  everywhere !  Seven  men  was 
in  the  wash-room,  scrubbing  it  off  their  clothes.  Tommy 
Cutts  stepped  in  a  puddle  of  it  and  tracked  it  into  the 
stitching  department.  The  doorway  was  crowded  with 
the  girls  that  had  left  their  machines  to  see  what  was 
going  on.  My  own  fingers  was  webbed  with  it  like  a 
^duck's  foot.  Somehow,  it  got  between  the  pages  of 
my  stock-book,  and  a  week  after  that  I  couldn't  get 
to  the  records  with  a  steel  crowbar.  So  it  goes. 

But  it  didn't  take  me  a  week  to  get  mad.  I  could 
feel  the  hair  on  the  back  of  my  neck  crawl  up  and  down 
my  collar !  "Ho  !  ho  !  "  says  I  to  myself.  "  When  the 
whistle  blows,  Jennie  Lyons,  —  big  sad  eyes  or  no  eyes, 
-you  will  get  yours  all  right!  You  fool,"  says  I  to 
myself,  "you  oughter  been  ashamed  to  hire  a  girl  for 
pity,"  says  I.  "You  oughter  fired  her  every  day 
since  she's  been  here.  She  ain't  earned  the  interest 
on  a  shortage,"  says  I.  "To-night  I'll  show  her!" 
I  says.  "She  can  look  like  a  lonesome  mouse,  and  no 
good  will  it  do  her,"  I  says.  "Chuck !  and  out  she  goes. 
Business  is  business,"  I  says. 


118  JIM  HANDS 

I  worked  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  thinking  of  it. 
" Don't  make  any  mistakes  now/'  I  says,  talking  to 
myself  as  I  cut  out  a  sample  vamp.  "  Don't  listen  to 
none  of  her  talk.  Fire  her  and  walk  away ! "  I  says. 
And  later  on,  I  remember,  I  went  to  the  end  of  the  room, 
and  I  see  the  town-hall  clock  said  quarter  to  five. 
"Walk  right  up  to  her  now,"  I  says  to  myself  again. 
" Don't  botch  the  job,"  I  says,  and  I  went  back  to  wait 
for  the  machinery  to  shut  down. 

By  and  by  the  whistle  blew,  and  I  looked  around. 
I  seen  Jennie  was  busy  cleaning  up,  with  that  slim  little 
body  and  big,  round,  scared  eyes  of  hers,  and  I  seen 
that  the  others  had  mostly  gone,  so  I  draws  myself 
up  and  walks  over  to  where  she  was  standing. 

"  Jennie,"  says  I,  "you  needn't  come  back  to-morrow," 
I  says.  "I  don't  think  you'll  do.  Stop  in  the  office 
and  get  your  pay,"  I  says. 

Well,  sir,  she  never  says  a  word !  She  just  looks  at 
me,  with  her  face  getting  whiter  and  something  like  the 
look  of  an  old  horse  that  you've  shot  in  the  forehead. 
"That's  all,"  says  I,  and  walks  away. 

After  a  bit  the  power  was  turned  off,  and  the  shafting 
eases  up  and  stops  with  a  sigh  that  always  makes  me 
think  it's  glad  for  the  night's  rest.  It  was  pretty  still 
in  the  room,  and  getting  kinder  dark. 

I  remember  I  could  see  the  clouds  streaked  along  the 
ridge  across  the  river  where  the  sky  was  lightest,  and 
there  was  frost  coming  on  the  winders.  I  was  under 


JIM  HANDS  119 

a  lamp  I'd  lit  and  checking  up  the  piece-work,  and  all 
of  a  sudden  I  hears  a  little  noise  behind  me,  way  down 
the  room.  "Sh-sh-gug-gug-ooh,"  it  sounded.  I  looks 
up,  and  I  seen  that  Jennie  hadn't  gone  yet.  I  seen  her 
little  white  face  through  the  dark  as  if  it  had  been 
rubbed  with  phosphorus. 

With  that  I  closed  up  my  bench-desk  and  walked  down 
toward  her.  She  was  sobbing,  all  right.  She  shook  with 
'em. 

" Whatcher  waiting  for?  "  I  says.  But  I  made  a  big 
mistake  by  speaking.  Not  that  she  answered,  for  she 
never  peeped,  but  just  flung  herself  forward  on  the  bench 
and  begins  to  cry  kinder  soft ;  and  every  now  and  then 
she'd  catch  a  breath,  and  you  could  see  by  the  raising  of 
her  little  shoulders  when  she'd  caught  a  long  one. 

"Flif-flif-flif,"  she  went.  You  know  how  it  sounds 
when  a  woman's  crying.  Between  you  and  me,  I'd 
rather  have  'em  come  back  at  me  with  a  lot  of  good 
four-ply,  full-mouthed  tongue-lashing  or  fling  a  flat- 
iron.  This  flif-flif-flif  business  is  a  foolish  sketch.  It 
makes  me  feel  as  cheerful  as  one  of  them  rosettes  of 
black  crape  they  hang  on  a  door.  You  know  how  yer 
shift  yer  feet  and  wonder  what  you're  going  to  do  about 
it,  and  whether  what  you'll  say  will  make  it  worse  or 
better;  and  your  collar  shrinks  about  three  sizes,  and 
you've  got  your  choice  whether  to  rip  out  a  oath  or 
two  and  make  it  worse,  or  whether  ter  try  reason,  which 
you  know  ain't  any  good. 


120  JIM   HANDS 

Well,  I  stood  there,  and  it  was  soft  at  first,  but  it  was 
getting  louder,  with  a  worrying  sound  in  it. 

"Whatcher  crying  for,  Jennie?"  I  says,  soft  and 
pleasant.  "Don't  cry,"  I  says;  "cut  it  out!"  1  says, 
getting  mad.  "What's  the  matter  with  yer?  "  says  I. 

With  that  she  raised  her  head,  and  I  seen  them  big 
scared  eyes  of  hers  with  them  long  lashes  was  full  of 
water,  and  it  was  dripping  from  her  little  chin. 

"I'm  fired,"  she  says,  with  some  more  of  them  sobs  of 
hers.  "0  dear  me!"  she  says,  as  if  I  wasn't  there. 
"Mr.  Hands  has  fired  me,"  she  says,  "and  my  poor 
little  dog,"  she  says.  "I've  been  fired!"  And  then 
some  more  of  that  "flif-flif-flif." 

I  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  and  at  the  floor  and  out  of 
the  winder.  "Maybe,"  I  thinks,  "I  was  harsh  with 
her,"  says  I,  lying  to  myself  and  knowing  it.  And  I 
looked  at  her  again,  and  she'd  spread  her  face  and  hands 
down  on  the  bench  again. 

"For  the  love  of  peace,  shut  up!"  I  says.  "Come 
back  to  work  to-morrow,"  says  I.  "I  haven't  any  more 
time  to  talk  with  you,"  says  I,  very  stern.  "Business 
is  business." 

And  so  it  come  about  that  she  was  back  the  same 
as  ever,  —  to  my  shame  be  it  said,  —  and  she  brought 
the  peaked  little  dog  with  her,  and  a  new  little  red 
collar  on  his  neck ;  and  he  went  smelling  around,  sus 
picious  and  whining,  on  the  trail  of  the  glue,  and  stop 
ping  now  and  then  to  scratch  and  look  up  at  me  with 
his  red,  watery  eyes. 


JIM  HANDS  121 

I  knew  the  trouble  had  got  to  come  again,  and  I  went 
inter  training  for  it.  I  don't  know  what  my  men 
thought  of  me,  I  was  that  short  with  them.  I  was 
practising  cold  blood,  though,  and  every  day  Jennie 
was  getting  worse  and  worse  —  with  her  work  half 
done  and  her  pasting  clippings  of  poetry  from  news 
papers  on  the  post  in  front  of  her  bench  and  talking  soft 
and  shy  to  the  dog.  We'd  have  been  getting  out  of 
the  deal  cheap  to  have  paid  her  the  wages  and  told  her 
to  stay  at  home  and  pray  for  more  orders. 

But  one  morning  in  walks  the  Boss.  When  he  comes 
upstairs  like  that  I  can  tell  in  a  minute  whether  he's 
feeling  fine  or  going  to  raise  a  rumpus,  for  if  everything's 
good  he'll  stop  in  the  door  and  scratch  his  head  and 
look  around,  but  if  it's  the  other  way,  he'll  walk  right 
in,  very  fast  for  his  age,  and  with  one  eye  shut  and  rub 
bing  his  ear  with  his  hand.  This  time  I  knew  something 
was  the  matter. 

"Jim,"  says  he,  "I  see  by  the  report  you  have  a  lot 
of  damaged  vamps.  Who  did  it  ?  "  says  he. 

"  Jennie  Lyons,"  says  I. 

"That  mouse  of  a  girl  we  hired  in  November?  "  says 
he.  "Is  she  any  good?"  says  he. 

"No,"  says  I. 

"Why  don't  you  fire  her?  "  says  he. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  "I  tried  it  once,  and  I'll  try  it 
again,"  says  I.  "She's  a  little  thing,"  I  says. 

The  Boss  was  mad.     "Jim,"  he  says,  "this  ain't  your 


122  JIM  HANDS 

factory  to  do  as  yer  please  with  it.  Your  duty  is  to 
see  that  what's  under  you  is  run  to  the  best  advantage 
at  most  any  cost.  You  know  I  don't  want  anybody 
to  do  anything  dishonest,  but  duty  is  duty.  And 
another  thing/'  he  says,  "I  hate  to  see  a  man  that's 
been  in  factories  most  of  his  life  get  soft  and  mushy. 
We  ain't  running  a  home  for  orphans!  Remember 
what  I  said  to  yer  before,"  says  he.  "No  sentiment !  " 

"I'll  fire  her,"  says  I. 

"I  wouldn't  trust  yer  to  do  it,"  he  says.  "Send  her 
down  to  me  at  the  noon  hour,"  he  says.  "I'll  do  it 
myself,"  he  says,  and  walks  away. 

Of  course  I  wasn't  going  to  have  any  trouble  if  I  could 
help  it.  No  more  of  that  flif-mf-flif  and  water  for  me  ! 
So  I  planned  never  to  say  anything  to  her  until  she  was 
ready  to  go  to  dinner.  But  she  got  away  before  I  knew 
it,  and  I  just  caught  her  at  the  entrance  to  the  offices. 

"Jennie,"  says  I,  "the  Boss  wants  to  see  yer  in  his 
office." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  says,  with  her  little  voice.  "He's 
going  to  fire  me  ! "  And  I  thought  she  was  going  to 
start  sobbing. 

"Walk  right  in,"  says  I.  "I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it,"  I  says.  "Go  right  in  and  sit  down.  He's  in  the 
sole-leather  room,  and  he'll  be  right  up,"  I  says. 

Pretty  soon  the  Boss  comes  up  from  the  basement 
and  sees  me.  "Jim,"  says  he,  "where's  that  no-good 
girl  that's  come  down  for  her  time  ?  " 


JIM  HANDS  123 

"In  there,"  says  I,  " sitting  in  your  office." 

"She  knows  what  I'm  going  to  say  to  her,  I  suppose," 
he  says. 

"From  what  I  can  guess,  she's  next ! "  says  I. 

With  that  the  Boss  leaned  forward  so's  he  could  look 
down  toward  the  bookkeeper's  desk  and  into  his  own 
office.  "Great  Scott,"  says  he,  "she's  got  her  handker 
chief  out!  Confound  the  luck!"  he  says.  "She's 
crying ! "  he  says. 

"Are  you  sure?"  says  I,  grinning. 

"Thunder — yes,"  he  says.  "Well,  ain't  she  any  good 
at  all  ?  "  says  he,  pulling  at  the  short  hair  above  his  ear. 

"None  at  all,"  says  I. 

"None  at  all?  "  he  says.  "Well,  what  should  we  do 
in  a  case  like  this?"  he  says. 

I  never  answered,  but  just  pulled  open  my  knife  and 
whittles  a  match  with  it. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  he,  "I'll  just  explain  to  her  that  we 
can't  use  her,"  he  says.  "Those  that  can't  earn  their 
pay  must  go.  That  answer  is  easy,"  says  he,  and  he 
pulls  down  his  vest  and  walks  in. 

On  the  way  back  after  dinner,  and  when  I  got  down 
by  Mrs.  Jordan's  boarding-house,  I  was  paying  a  good 
deal  of  attention  to  places  to  put  my  feet  down,  and  it 
weren't  till  I  got  to  the  rise  that  I  looked  up,  and  then, 
just  as  sure  as  I'm  sitting  here,  I  seen  Jennie  Lyons 
carrying  the  measly  dog  under  her  arm  and  just  going 
in  the  factory  door. 


124  JIM  HANDS 

She  weren't  in  my  room  when  I  got  up  there,  so  it 
was  a  big  load  off  my  chest ;  and  it  weren't  till  I  started 
down  the  stairs  that  night  and  looked  in  at  the  lasters' 
room,  where  Ben  Joline  is  foreman,  that  I  seen  what 
had  become  of  her.  For  there  she  was,  cleaning  lasts, 
and  the  dog  at  her  little  feet  inter  the  bargain ! 

Ben  Joline  is  dead  now.  You  never  knew  him,  but 
it  took  a  big,  rough  old  fellow  to  handle  them  Finns 
and  Canucks  and  jailbirds  that  we  always  seemed  to 
get  on  the  lasters'  bench.  He  was  one  of  the  kind  that 
shaves  in  the  morning  and  has  a  bristling  beard  by 
noon;  and  his  neck  was  as  big  around  as  a  boy's  body, 
and  red.  Then  he  was  marked  with  smallpox,  and 
until  he  got  inter  this  business  he  had  been  boss  of 
gangs  of  longshoremen  on  the  Lakes.  And  he  had  a 
voice  that  would  bust  the  big  pipe  on  a  church  organ, 
and  was  a  very  rough  talker  and  strict  with  his  men. 
When  I  seen  him  standing  there,  and  the  thin,  mousy 
girl  sitting  there,  too,  it  made  me  think  of  the  way 
they  feed  live  rabbits  to  the  lion  in  the  circus. 

I  met  the  Boss  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  his  hat 
on,  going  out. 

"Did  yer  fire  the  girl?  "  I  says. 

"Jim,"  says  he,  waving  his  hand,  "I'm  just  going 
out  in  a  big  hurry.  Unless  you  want  me  for  something 
important,  you'll  have  to  wait  for  another  time,"  he 
says. 

And  I  guess  it  was  three  or  four  days  after  that  when 


JIM   HANDS  125 

Jolinc  come  up  at  about  five  and  walks  up  to  me, 
hitching  up  his  trousers  front  and  back,  as  he  learned 
sailoring.  "Jim,"  says  he,  with  a  whisper  that  sounded 
like  a  train  going  over  a  bridge,  "did  that  Jennie  Lyons 
work  for  you?  ': 

"Yes,"  I  says. 

"Weren't  any  good,  was  she?"  says  he. 

"No,"  says  I. 

"Why  didn't  you  give  her  the  sack?  "  he  says. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  says  I. 

"Ho  !  ho  !  "  he  says,  "you  old  rascal,  you ! "  he  says. 
"I  bet  I  know." 

"You  tried  it,  too?"  I  asked. 

"Sh-sh,"  says  he,  slapping  me  on  the  back  with  his 
big  hand,  "  don't  say  a  word !  I've  sacked  a  couple 
o'  thousand  men  in  my  day.  And  the  Boss  told  me  if 
she  weren't  any  good,  to  tell  her  to  go.  Well,  she  ain't 
any  good  —  you  know  that,"  he  says.  "And  that 
sick  pup  of  hers !  "  he  says. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "you've  fired  her?  " 

"Sure,"  he  says.  "I  fired  her,  and  now  what's  best 
to  do  next?  "  he  says. 

I  laughed  at  him  and  says,  says  I,  "Well,  you  know 
she  ain't  got  any  folks  or  anybody  to  love  her  but  that 
sore-eyed  dog,"  says  I,  "and  I  hardly  know  what 
she'd  do  up  here  in  the  winter  without  work,"  I  says. 
"But  then,"  I  says,  "we  oughter  have  no  sentiment 
about  business  matters,"  says  I. 


126  JIM  HANDS 

" Before  you  go  on  trying  to  throw  your  joking  at 
me,"  says  he,  "wait  till  I  tell  yer  what  I  done,"  he  says. 
"I  found  out  that  Joe  Bent  down  in  the  packing-room 
was  short  of  somebody  to  sort  sizes,  so  I  offered  her  to 
him,  and  darn  me,  he  took  her ! " 

"He  didn't  know?"  says  I. 

"Not  a  word,"  says  he.  "She's  going  to  start  in 
to-morrow  ;1  and  if  you  say  anything  to  him,  I'll  choke 
yer  ter  death." 

"It's  a  mean  trick,"  says  I. 

"On  Joe?  "he  asks. 

"No,  on  the  little  girl,"  I  says.  For  I  was  thinking 
of  Bent  and  his  ways.  I  always  kinder  disliked  Joe. 
He  was  one  of  these  young  fellers  that  is  tall  and  so 
straight  it  seems  to  hurt  him,  and  he  never  makes  no 
mistakes  and  keeps  a  diary  and  thinks  he's  got  trouble 
with  his  stomach,  and  so  far  as  I  could  see  he  had  about 
as  much  feeling  for  anybody  else  as  I've  got  for  that 
board  there  on  the  floor.  He  was  always  sniffling  and 
sniffling  and  always  done  his  duty,  and  had  so  much 
modesty  that  he'd  try  to  show  how  modest  he  was 
every  chance  he  got.  And  cold-blooded !  He  was 
about  as  human  as  a  plaster-paris  model  of  a  cake  of  ice. 

As  I  was  saying,  I  says  to  Ben  Joline,  "It's  a  mean 
trick  on  the  girl." 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  he,  "but  you  know  Joe.  He  hates 
all  women-folks,  anyway;  and  when  he  makes  up  his 
mind,  he's  good  for  action.  He  never  has  any  use  for 


JIM  HANDS  127 

girls.  He'll  get  pleasure  out  of  sacking  Jennie.  The 
boss  knows  it,  too.  She's  as  good  as  gone.  She  could 
cry  aloud  on  the  floor  and  he'd  freeze  it  for  her,"  says 
he.  "He's  a  woman-hater,  he  is,"  and  with  that  he 
slaps  me  on  the  back  again  as  if  he'd  just  had  money 
left  him,  and  walks  off. 

It  was  as  much  as  four  weeks  after  that  I  went  down 
to  the  office  to  talk  about  a  new  lot  of  upper  leather 
with  the  Boss,  and  we  argues  for  a  while,  and  I  remem 
ber  I  says  to  him  at  last,  "Well,  anyhow,  the  cheaper 
product  cuts  best  for  economy,"  I  says. 

"And,  by  the  way,"  I  says,  "I  understand  Jennie 
Lyons  was  working  for  Joe  Bent  in  the  packing-room. 
Of  course  you  know  it,"  I  says. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  says  the  Old  Boss,  looking  at  me  kinder 
suspicious. 

"She  was  working  for  him,"  says  I. 

"Was?"  says  he.     "Did  he  fire  her?" 

"  He  did,"  says  I,  and  I  pulls  a  cigar  out  of  my  pocket 
and  holds  it  up.  "How's  that?"  says  I. 

"  The  cigar  ?  "  he  says.     "  Where'd  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  You've  just  come  in,"  I  says,  "  so  you  don't  know. 
Joe  Bent  gave  it  to  me." 

"Great  guns!"  says  the  old  man.  "I  never  knew 
Joe  ever  gave  away  a  cigar  in  his  life." 

"  Why,"  says  I,  "  he  passed  'em  around  to  everybody 
this  morning." 

"For  what?"  he  says. 


128  JIM  HANDS 

"  For  discharging  Jennie/'  says  I.  "  He's  fixed  it  so 
she  won't  work  here  no  more." 

"Had  the  backbone!  I  knew  it,"  says  the  Boss. 
"No  sentiment  for  him!  She's  through." 

"  Yep,"  says  I,  "  last  night  he  married  her." 

"Happy  days!"  yells  the  Old  Boss,  and  slid  down 
in  his  desk  chair.  "How  did  it  happen?" 

"Well,"  says  I,  "they  say  he  told  her  she  wouldn't 
do,  and  she  began  to  cry;  and  by  and  by  he  put  his 
arm  around  them  little  shoulders  of  hers,  and  then,  of 
course  — 

"Well,  I'll  be  thundered!"  says  the  Boss.  "You 
and  Joline,  the  tough  old  nut  that  he  is,  and  cold 
blooded  Joe  Bent !  Not  one  of  you  with  the  nerve ! 
So  far  as  I  can  find  out,  a  little  woman's  weeping  is  an 
awful  weapon,"  he  says. 

"And  what  about  you?"  says  I.     "You  tried." 

"Me?"  says  the  old  man.  "Oh,  I  don't  count. 
I'm  a  damn  fool  about  those  things,  anyway." 

And  yet  it  was  kinder  funny  that  he  looked  up  at  me 
then  for  a  minute  or  two  and  felt  around  with  his 
fingers  until  he  reached  the  calendar  on  his  desk  with 
the  sheet  on  it  about  six  or  eight  weeks  behind  and 
tore  off  a  piece  of  it  and  crumpled  it  up  and  threw  it 
in  the  waste-basket,  but  never  stopped  looking  at  me. 
He  didn't  look  very  happy,  I  thought.  He  looked  like 
somebody  going  to  say  good-by  to  an  old  friend  or  the 
like  of  that. 


JIM  HANDS  129 

"Jim,"  he  says,  by  and  by,  with  a  different  voice, 
"I  want  to  see  you  this  noon  hour,"  he  says.  "I've 
got  something  to  talk  over  with  you.  Do  you  go  home 
these  days  to  dinner?"  he  says. 

"  No,"  says  I.  "  Katherine  is  on  her  feet  again,  and 
now  that  we're  so  loaded  up  with  orders,"  I  says,  "  and 
I  can't  spare  the  time,  she  fixes  something  up  for  me 
and  brings  it  down,"  I  says,  and  he  nodded  and  called 
the  stenographer. 


So  it  was  at  the  noon  hour  that  the  business  came 
to  a  head,  and  sometimes  when  I  look  back  on  it,  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  things  was  falling  all  together  and 
joining  one  thing  to  the  other  to  make  a  new  pattern 
out  of  life. 

I  suspected  what  the  Old  Boss  had  on  his  mind,  and 
when  I  went  down  into  his  office,  I  seen  there  was  still 
a  smile  in  his  eyes,  but  none  on  his  mouth. 

"  Jim,"  he  says,  "  sit  down.  You  know  me,"  he  says. 
"  You've  known  me  a  good  many  years.  Maybe  this 
will  be  the  end  of  your  regard  for  me.  But,"  he  says, 
with  a  kind  of  a  begging  look  in  his  eyes,  "I'm  going  to 
talk  straight.  I  might  say  nothing  to  you,  but  somehow 
I'd  rather  empty  both  barrels  right  into  your  face," 
he  says,  "  and  please  don't  forget  that,"  he  says. 

Right  then,  in  spite  of  his  words,  I  could  feel  the  liking 
I  had  for  the  Old  Boss  drop  down  out  of  my  body  and 
kinder  leak  out  at  the  bottom  of  my  feet.  I  knew  what 
was  coming.  I'd  waited  for  somebody  to  take  the  first 
move,  and  I  knew  he  was  going  to  take  it. 

"Jim,"  he  says,  "you  know  my  boy  is  attracted  by 
your  girl.  I  guess  we've  all  known  it  since  the  Tommy 
Cutts  business,"  he  says.  "Well,  Jim,"  he  says,  "he's 
getting  along,  and  in  the  next  year  or  so  he'll  be  out  in 

130 


JIM  HANDS  131 

the  world,"  he  says.  '  Yesterday  he  come  away  from 
college,  and  last  night  he  told  me  he  had  come  up  to  see 
your  girl  and  was  going  to  ask  her  to  marry  him,"  he 
says. 

I  remember  I  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
over  them  piles  of  snow  where  the  plough  had  cut 
through  early  that  morning,  and  I  must  say  the  office 
seemed  kind  of  hot  to  me. 

"He  was  pretty  straight  with  you,"  I  says. 

"Well,  I  was  with  him,  too,"  says  the  Old  Boss. 
"  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  have  it.  And  I'm  straight  with 
you.  I'll  tell  you  the  same."  His  jaw  was  getting  to 
project  the  way  it  does. 

Maybe  I  was  feeling  some  of  it,  too.  "  Well,"  I  says, 
"  if  you've  talked  to  him,  there  ain't  any  use  of  talking 
to  me,"  I  says. 

He  gave  a  grunt  then.  "I  don't  dare  to  say  too  much 
to  my  boy,"  he  explained.  "The  affections  is  a  queer 
lot  of  plants,"  he  says;  "the  more  you  abuse  'em,  the 
better  they  grow,"  he  says,  "like  cussed  things  —  like 
poison  ivy,"  he  says.  "It's  you  and  I  that  have  got  to 
settle  this." 

"Go  on,"  says  I. 

With  that  he  jumped  up  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  and  kick  the  corners  of  the  rug,  and  then  he 
wheeled  around  on  me.  "  I  don't  want  him  to  fix  any 
thing  up  with  her,"  he  says,  growling.  "  I  don't  know 
how  deep  the  thing  has  got  already.  I  don't  know 


132  JIM  HANDS 

what  has  happened.  I  asked  the  boy  to  go  back  for 
a  week  or  two  and  give  me  a  chance  to  see  it  his  way. 
And  he's  gone  —  went  on  the  noon  train.  Is  he  under 
any  kind  of  obligations  to  your  girl?" 

1  Yes/'  I  says.      "  I  believe  she  has  given  up  some 
of  her  spare  hours  to  him,"  I  says. 

I  seen  the  red  come  into  his  face,  and  then  I  seen  him 
pull  himself  together,  and  he  came  over  and  looked 
at  me.  He  looked  as  if  he  liked  me.  He  kinder  smiled. 

"  Jim,"  he  said,  "there  ain't  anything  more  hard  to 
say  than  what  I've  said  to  you.  I  don't  know  your 
girl.  I  know  she  is  mighty  good  to  look  at.  But 
he's  my  only  boy,  and  I've  always  pictured  him  growing 
up  and  marrying  a  girl  who  has  a  little  different  place 
than  your  girl  has  —  a  little  more  of  everything.  It's 
hard  to  know  just  what  it  is.  Maybe  a  little  more 
money  and  a  little  more  education  and  a  little  more 
social  life  and  a  little  more  of  a  lot  of  things  that  you 
couldn't  give  your  girl.  It  isn't  your  fault  and  it  isn't 
hers.  But  it's  something  I  feel  sure  would  only  make 
unhappiness,  Jim.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  would  be 
bad  for  both  of  'em.  They've  known  different  kind  of 
lives.  He  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  hers  nor  she  with 
his.  He  wouldn't  understand  her  friends  and  she  might 
not  like  his.  I'm  trying  to  play  square.  I  want  you 
to  help  me  to  stop  it,  Jim." 

I  suppose  I  would  have  answered  him  somehow,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  what  happened.  I  was  standing  there 


JIM  HANDS  133 

and  thinking  and  kinder  gagging  in  my  throat,  and  all 
of  a  sudden  I  seen  what  I  supposed  was  the  right  thing. 

"  Mr.  Harvey,"  I  says,  "my  girl  is  outside  that  door 
there,  waiting  for  me  to  come  out  and  get  my  dinner. 
Why  don't  you  ask  me  to  send  her  in  and  let  you  talk 
to  her  —  talk  alone?" 

"  Great  Scott !"  he  says.     "That  wouldn't  do." 

"  What's  the  matter?"  I  says.  "  I  thought  you  was 
going  to  be  square?" 

He  shut  his  fists  then,  and  says,  "  Send  her  in." 

So  I  sent  her  in  —  she,  with  her  eyes  big  with  sur 
prise  and  the  color  just  coming  back  into  her  cheeks. 
And  I  stood  like  a  man  at  the  door  of  a  jury  room. 
Why,  I  could  paint  a  picture  of  the  grain  in  that 
.^cypress  panel  right  now. 

I  don't  know  to  this  day  what  was  said  inside  that 
room.  It  isn't  anything  I  ever  talked  about.  But 
when  the  door  opened,  I  seen  the  Boss  running  his 
fingers  through  his  hair  —  very  fast  —  again  and  again. 
And  Katherine  came  out,  and  she  took  my  hand,  and 
you'd  never  known  from  her  face  that  anything  was 
wrong,  but  her  hand  was  like  the  hand  of  a  stone  statue 
on  a  drinking  fountain,  only  you  could  feel  the  nerves 
in  it. 

"Mr.  Harvey  has  told  me  many  things,"  she  says,  in 
a  clear  voice  and  with  her  head  raised.  "  And  maybe 
you'd  better  hear  what  I'm  going  to  say  to  him  finally, 
so  there  won't  need  to  be  any  misunderstanding," 


134  JIM  HANDS 

she  says,  easy  and  clear.  "  Well,  Mr.  Harvey,  maybe 
you  are  right.  What  you  have  said  amounts  to  one 
thing.  It  is  that  I  have  too  little  to  give  your  son," 
she  says.  "  Maybe  you  are  right,  sir,"  says  she.  "  How 
can  I  say  ?  We  are  very  simple  people,  and  least  of  all 
pretentious,"  she  says.  "  Maybe  you  know  that  your 
son  would  be  unhappy  because  of  me,"  she  says.  "  It 
is  enough  that  you  think  so  and  have  told  me,"  she  says. 
"  I  will  see  your  son  no  more.  I  will  tell  him  that  he 
belongs  to  a  people  who  are  in  many  ways  different  from 
mine  —  different  in  several  ways.  You  have  said 
different  in  money  and  education  and  manner  of  life," 
she  says.  "  Let  me  add  a  few  more  differences,"  she 
says,  —  "  differences  in  simplicity  and  good-heartedness 
and  humble  faith,"  she  says. 

And  with  that  she  thought  a  minute  and  smiled  as 
natural  and  good-natured  as  if  she  was  talking  of  the 
fall  of  snow  we'd  had.  "Oh,  no,"  she  says,  "I  would 
not  marry  your  son.  You  have  my  word,  sir." 

The  Boss  looked  up  at  her  kind  of  quick.  "  You 
love  him,  don't  you?"  he  said,  as  if  he  didn't  want  her 
to  say  "No." 

"  Oh !"  says  she,  as  if  he  had  struck  her  square  in  the 
face,  "  I'd  rather  not  discuss  that,  if  you  please." 

I  seen  the  Boss  look  up  at  the  ceiling  and  bite  his  lips. 
I  remember  how  the  blood  was  pounding  in  my  forehead 
till  my  eyes  smarted. 

"  Suppose  it  should  turn  out  —  "he  began. 


JIM  HANDS  135 

But  she  stopped  him.  "  Then,"  she  says,  "  in  that 
case,"  she  says,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  it  would  be  neces 
sary  for  his  father  to  come  to  me  when  he  comes,  and 
ask  for  me  when  he  asks,"  she  says. 

And  she  turns  around  to  me  and  says,  "  Dad,  walk 
home  with  me,  please,"  and  she  bowed  to  the  Old  Boss, 
and  we  went  out  the  factory  door  and  over  the  railroad 
bridge  and  up  Maple  Hill.  She  got  whiter  and  whiter, 
but  never  said  a  word  till  we  were  in  the  front  room; 
then  she  caught  the  arm  of  the  big  chair  and  sat  down. 

"  Don't  ever  let  my  mother  know,"  she  says,  and  then 
all  the  mask  she'd  been  wearing  dropped  off  of  her, 
and  she  dug  her  face  down  into  the  cushions  and  you 
could  see  the  shaking  of  her  body. 

That  was  a  bad  day  for  us  —  a  bad  day  for  us  all. 
The  girl  wrote  a  letter  to  Bob  Harvey.  It  was  the  next 
day.  She  gave  it  to  me  all  sealed  and  stamped  without 
a  word  and  with  the  touch  of  her  hand  like  that  other 
in  the  Boss's  office.  But  though  she  never  let  out  so 
much  as  a  whisper,  even  to  me,  of  course  I  had  to  tell 
my  Annie,  and  little  Mike  and  his  brother  John  was 
wondering  why  Katherine  didn't  play  with  them  any 
more,  romping  and  hiding  and  so  on  at  bedtime. 

"  Never  you  mind,"  I  says  to  Annie.  "  It  will  soon  be 
forgotten.  We  make  a  lot  of  fuss  and  noise  about 
to-day,  and  yesterday  is  all  forgotten  to-morrow,"  I 
says.  "  And  what  I  want  to  know  now  is  why  in  thun 
der  the  person  that  uses  the  snow-shovel  can't  bring 


136  JIM  HANDS 

it  back  and  hang  it  on  this  nail,"  I  says.     "  I  drove  it 
here  on  purpose,"  says  I. 

But  the  girl  went  on  silent  and  thinking,  and  no  one 
knew  what  she  had  in  her  mind  when  she'd  look  up  in 
the  evening  from  her  embroidering  and  let  her  work 
fall  in  her  lap  and  maybe  smile  at  one  of  us,  kinder 
patient. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IT  was  when  there  was  beginning  to  be  signs  of  spring 
coming  again  that  she  changed  so.  It  was  hard  to  tell 
what  had  come  over  her.  She  weren't  like  herself  at  all. 
She  began  to  think  of  clothes  again  —  not  the  kind 
she'd  always  liked  to  wear,  but  shorter  sleeves  and 
bigger  hats  and  the  like  of  that.  She  didn't  talk  the 
same.  She  had  a  sort  of  "  what 's-the-difference  "  way 
with  her.  I  seen  Annie  with  tears  in  her  eyes  over  it 
more  than  once.  "  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
the  girl,"  she  says  to  me.  "  There's  something  wild 
about  her,"  she  says.  "  I  hate  to  tell  you,  Jim,"  she 
says,  "  but  she  went  sleigh-riding  yesterday  with  Myrick, 
the  bank  cashier  that's  been  divorced,"  she  says,  "and 
wears  them  yellow  gloves,"  says  she. 

Of  course  you  can't  tell  ever  how  things  would  have 
gone  if  Anne  Villet  hadn't  come.  I  sometimes  think 
it  is  only  because  people  feel  responsible  to  other  people 
that  they  don't  fly  off  the  handle,  and  it  was  Anne 
Villet  that  made  the  difference  to  Katherine.  And 
there  wouldn't  have  been  any  Anne  Villet  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  old  Joe  Paul. 

Joe  used  to  work  in  the  factory  right  there  in  the 
basement  where  the  Finns  tack  heels.  It  smells  damp 
and  cold,  and  is  filled  with  the  kind  of  sweet  smell  of 

137 


138  JIM  HANDS 

sole-leather  from  them  big,  flat,  creaking  skins  piled 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  He  sat  there  for  fifteen 
years  or  more. 

A  factory  like  ours  can  see  some  strange  things,  and 
now  and  then  some  strange  folks  that  I  don't  make  out 
to  understand  at  all.  Some  of  'em  drift  in  and  some 
of  'em  drift  out.  It's  them  that  stay  that  you  get  to 
know,  but  Joe  Paul  stayed  on  a  good  many  years,  and 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  there  was  something 
I  didn't  know  about  him,  and  I  never  looked  at  him 
without  feeling  like  you  do  when  you  try  to  chew  up 
a  mouthful  of  spinach  that's  full  of  grit. 

Joe  just  came  from  nowhere,  as  far  as  anybody  could 
tell,  and  brought  nothing  with  him.  He  was  old  - 
you  couldn't  tell  how  old,  and  yet  it  seemed  kinder  as 
if  somebody'd  painted  him  a  few  days  ago  and  he'd 
just  stepped  out  of  the  frame  with  his  thin,  long  neck 
and  its  loose  skin,  and  his  hands  with  a  couple  of  twists 
of  rheumatism  in  'em  that  made  'em  look  like  hooks, 
and  his  old  baggy  clothes.  To  be  sure,  he  showed  a 
whole  lot  of  signs  of  cold  water,  and  his  face  was  pink 
and  scrubbed-looking,  even  at  the  bottom  of  them 
wrinkles  that  all  ran  down  one  way  and  give  his  face  a 
kinder  drooped  appearance,  just  like  you  sec  in  a  piece 
of  wet  cloth  hanging  somewhere.  And  he  had  a  thin, 
gray  mustache,  too  —  and  that  drooped.  And  his 
clothes  drooped.  But  there  was  a  different  look  in  his 
eyes,  though  they  was  always  watery,  like  old  people's. 


JIM  HANDS  139 

And  as  I  say,  so  far  as  he  gave  out  any  signs,  or  so  far 
as  anybody  knew,  he  turned  up  from  nowhere. 

I  can  remember  him  coming  to  work  —  bent  a  little, 
and  a  hitch  and  a  spring  in  his  step,  and  regular  at  the 
time-clock  for  all  them  years,  with  never  a  miss.  He  used 
ter  walk  down  from  that  little  three-room  house  he  built 
up  there  where  the  road  to  the  lake  runs  so  close  to  the 
bank  of  the  river,  just  above  the  Canuck  settlement. 
It  may  be  because  he  built  his  shack  up  near  them  that 
the  story  got  around  that  his  mother  was  a  French 
Canadian,  and  most  everybody  believed  it.  It  seemed 
to  me  he  was  too  regular  and  too  quiet  and  didn't  use 
his  hands  enough.  Them  Canucks  always  make  motions, 
( even  when  they  talk  to  themselves,  and  this  old  feller 
kinder  let  his  arms  hang  at  his  sides,  and  when  you'd 
speak  to  him  he  would  kinder  duck  as  if  you'd  made 
a  pass  at  him  with  a  closed  fist.  The  fact  is,  he  was  a 
strange  old  bird,  wearing  ear-laps  and  mittens  in  winter, 
and  in  all  the  years  he  was  here,  and  with  all  the  old 
frayed-out  black  neckties  I've  seen  on  him,  —  for  he'd 
wear  one  tie  day  after  day  and  Sundays  till  it  fell  apart 
and  he  had  to  get  a  new  one,  —  I  never  yet  seen  him 
without  a  clean  collar,  low-cut,  twice  too  big  for  him, 
and  clean. 

He  never  spoke  to  nobody.  The  foreman  might  tell 
him  to  do  something,  and  he'd  just  raise  his  hands  as 
if  he  was  going  to  salute  like  a  soldier,  and  then  stop  and 
go  off  and  do  what  he'd  been  ordered  without  a  word. 


140  JIM  HANDS 

Men  got  to  letting  him  go  by  'em  without  even  saying 
good  morning  to  him.  It  was  natural.  And  if  it  was 
necessary  to  ask  him  a  question,  he'd  just  look  up 
kinder  surprised  and,  no  matter  what  it  was,  he'd  say, 
slow  and  easy,  "Well,  now  I  don't  know  as  I  can  rightly 
explain";  and  he  always  said  that  when  he  started, 
even  though  the  answer  that  came  on  top  of  it  was  just 
plain  yes  or  no. 

It's  funny  that  we  don't  know  people  we  see  in 
the  factory  every  day  for  fifteen  years.  You'd  think 
in  that  time  you'd  have  looked  at  'em,  listened  to  'em, 
and  touched  ;em  enough  to  know  what  was  inside  of 
'em.  Of  course  old  Joe  Paul  didn't  say  much,  but  a 
feller  would  even  get  to  know  a  dog  in  that  time,  and  a 
dog  don't  say  anything  at  all.  You  just  get  to  know  a 
dog  by  whether  his  nose  is  hot  or  cold,  whether  he 
chases  sparrers  after  finding  out  he  can't  catch  'em, 
and  whether  he  finds  out  when  the  feller  who  feeds  him 
is  feeling  sick,  and  comes  up  and  scratches  at  the  bed 
room  door  with  his  paw.  But  it  weren't  till  the  end, 
when  Annie  Villet  come  and  got  a  job  in  the  packing- 
room,  that  any  of  us  knew  what  was  wrapped  up  in  his 
package. 

Why,  before  that,  I  can  remember  how  Bent,  that  thin, 
pale  feller  that  was  boss  downstairs  there  and  married 
Jennie  Lyons  —  a  feller  that  must  have  hed  powdered 
alum  thrown  on  his  soul,  but  had  a  hawk  eye  and  a  long 
white  nose  that  smelled  into  everything  —  I  can  remem- 


JIM  HANDS  141 

her  how  he  sized  up  Joe  Paul.  I  can  hear  him  now 
with  that  whine  of  his. 

"He's  just  learned  from  experience  that  everybody's 
looking  out  for  number  one,"  he  says,  "and  the  big 
Me,"  he  says,  "and  he  don't  want  nothing  to  do  with 
nobody.  He  just  draws  his  dollar  and  seventy-five 
a  day,  and  neither  that  or  anything  else  is  anybody's 
business  but  his.  He's  wise.  He  gets  good  company 
outer  himself.  And  he  don't  talk  none  because  he's 
learnt  that  talk  don't  put  any  good  in  the  stomach." 

"Huh !  "  says  Dave  Pierson  to  him,  "if  it  did  you'd 
be  overcrowding  your  blooming  system  all  the  time," 
he  says. 

But  Bent  went  right  on,  pretending  not  to  hear.  And 
he  says :  "Why,  he  don't  even  get  sociable  after  the  day's 
work  is  over.  Don't  I  know?  I  come  by  his  shack  a 
half-dozen  evenings  a  week.  He's  always  sitting  there 
alone.  Looks  as  if  somebody'd  thrown  him  up  against 
that  door  and  jammed  him  down  on  to  the  stone  steps. 
I've  seen  him  breaking  up  a  piece  of  bakery  bread  to 
throw  to  them  darn  fool  birds.  He  knows  them  birds 
has  got  more  sense  than  men,"  he  says,  "and  he's 
got  a  long-stem  pipe  with  a  bowl  on  it  as  big  as  a  drinking- 
cup.  Haven't  I  seen  him  puff  it  up  red  after  dark  when 
I  was  going  by?  Cooks  his  own  meals,"  says  Bent. 
"Ain't  that  a  sign  he  hasn't  any  use  for  people?  " 

"It's  a  wonder  you  wouldn't  cook  your  meals,  too," 
says  Dave,  "seeing  you  kick  so  much  about  'em.  The 


142  JIM  HANDS 

trouble  with  old  man  Paul  is  quick  said.  He's  got  sour. 
He's  what  you  call ' turned/  "  he  says,  "and  I  never  see 
him  but  what  I  wish  he'd  get  out  of  my  way.  He  makes 
me  think  of  a  glass  of  water  with  a  spoonful  of  milk  in  it." 

Maybe  Joe  Paul  knew  what  the  fellers  and  girls  thought 
of  him.  He  never  looked  at  any  of  'em  when  they  was 
looking  at  him,  and  kept  his  eyes  down  mostly.  It 
was  only  when  he  thought  nobody  was  looking  that  he'd 
look  at  people,  and  then  there'd  be  a  kinder  warm  look 
in  his  eyes  as  if  he  was  fond  of  'em.  Some  of  the  boys 
in  the  village  uster  throw  things  at  him  when  he'd  go 
and  come  after  the  new  library  was  built,  and  he  spent  his 
evenings  reading,  but  he  never  turned  around.  He'd 
just  pull  his  collar  up,  maybe,  and  duck  his  head  into  it 
kinder  like  a  turtle. 

And  speaking  of  the  library  makes  me  think  how 
Fanny  Bowles,  whose  father  raises  horses,  and  she's  got 
a  job  tending  the  books,  says  to  me  one  day:  "Mr. 
Hands,"  she  says,  "that  old  man  with  the  faded  brown 
overcoat,"  she  says,  "is  the  most  regular  man  in  town 
here  at  the  library,"  she  says,  "and  it's  funny,  because 
all  he  ever  cares  for  is  books  or  pictures  about  war," 
she  says. 

"War?  "  says  I.  "That's  funny !  "  I  says.  "There 
ain't  anything  war  about  old  Joe  Paul,"  I  says. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "that's  what  he  wants,"  she  says; 
"and  many  the  evening  he  sits  here  looking  at  them 
battle  pictures  in  the  '  Universal  History  of  Europe  and 


JIM  HANDS  143 

America/"  she  says,  "  and  running  his  crooked  finger 
around  between  his  neck  and  his  collar/'  she  says. 

And  though  I  thought  of  it  then,  I  guess  it  went  out 
of  my  head,  until  long  after  this  Anne  Villet  drifted  into 
town.  She  came  early  that  spring. 

You  couldn't  tell,  even  if  you  seen  her,  how  old  she 
was.  Her  face  was  kinder  dry,  and  yet  there  was  some 
thing  —  maybe  the  look  about  her  neck  or  ears  or  the 
way  she  walked  —  would  make  you  think  she  weren't 
so  old,  after  all.  Her  hair  was  yellow.  It  didn't  look 
natural  yellow,  neither,  and  her  teeth  would  show  gold 
when  she  opened  her  mouth,  which  weren't  often,  for  she 
usually  kept  her  lips  shut  close  together  like  a  feller  in  a 
twenty-round  fight  that's  getting  the  worst  of  it.  Maybe 
she  was  pretty  once.  And  anyhow,  she  looked  pretty 
sometimes,  even  then,  though  she  was  thin  and  quick 
and  nervous  like  a  stable  cat. 

It  was  kinder  funny  about  her.  I  happened  to  be 
downstairs  in  the  office  the  day  she  came  to  town,  and  it 
seemed  about  her,  just  as  it  did  about  the  old  man,  that 
she  come  from  nowhere,  and  yet  was  just  loaded  and 
sore  with  something  —  say,  like  experience.  And  I 
heard  her  talk  to  the  bookkeeper,  who  took  down  her 
name  and  job  and  give  her  a  piece-card,  and  so  on.  I 
heard  her  short,  jerky  answers  like  the  cracks  of  a  whip. 
You'd  thought  she'd  been  pinched  for  shoplifting  to 
hear  her,  she  was  that  defensive  about  the  commonest 
things.  It  made  you  think  of  somebody  who'd  started 


144  JIM  HANDS 

out  to  stand  against  the  wallops  of  the  whole  world  and 
do  it  all  alone,  maybe  getting  driven  back  all  the 
time,  but  fighting  all  the  time,  and  thinking  every  bush 
or  tree  had  somebody  hiding  behind  it  with  an  axe  or 
a  life-preserver.  That  was  Anne  Villet,  and  while  she 
lasted  she  was  a  good  worker.  And  she  had  a  fierce 
cough. 

She  was  about  as  far  away  from  people  as  Joe.  There 
was  something  interfering  between  him  and  the  rest  of 
us,  and  there  was  something  between  her  and  the  rest 
of  us,  too  —  something,  whatever  it  was,  that  made  her 
say  little  and  brush  her  yellow  hair  back  with  her  thin, 
long-fingered  hands,  nervous-like.  The  girls  didn't  like 
to  be  seen  talking  to  her.  I  can't  remember  a  time  when 
I  noticed  an}Hbody  stop  her  in  the  hall.  She  got  a  room 
down  at  Mrs.  Jordan's.  It  ain't  a  very  nice  place,  but 
there  weren't  any  of  the  other  boarding-houses  that 
wanted  to  take  her  in. 

I  heard  my  Katherine  and  Betty  Morris,  who  worked 
in  the  stitching-room,  talking  about  her,  for  Katherine 
took  an  interest  in  all  that  went  on  at  the  factory. 

"Well,  Miss  Hands,"  says  Betty,  "yer  can't  expect 
anything  different,"  she  says.  "For  this  Villet  girl 
looks  different  from  any  of  the  rest  of  us,"  she  says, 
' '  and  we  know  nothing  about  her.  We  don't  even  know 
where  she  comes  from." 

I  thinks  to  myself,  when  I  heard  her  say  it,  that,  after 
all,  there  is  hard  and  cruel  streaks  in  women  as  well  as 


JIM  HANDS  145 

men,  and  maybe  even  more  so,  except  in  a  few  of  'em  like 
my  Annie. 

"But  she  must  be  lonesome,"  says  Katherine.  "I 
know  how  I'd  feel  if  I  come  here  from  the  city." 

"Ho!"  says  Betty,  "you  aren't  the  same.  You 
aren't  young  and  old  looking  at  the  same  time,"  she 
says,  "and  your  hair  is  natural, and  you  don't  have  them 
hard  eyes.  She's  tough." 

"Tough?  "  says  Katherine. 

"Yes,"  says  the  Morris  girl,  lifting  that  pointed  chin 
of  hers.  "You  know  a  girl  like  me  can't  afford  to  be 
having  to  do  with  Anne  Villet." 

I  seen  Katherine  scowl  a  bit  then.  Then  by  and  by 
she  said,  kinder  quick,  "Well,  there  are  other  girls  right 
in  your  room  that's  kind  of  rough  in  their  manners. 
Perhaps  I  am,  sometimes." 

"Well,"  says  Betty,  "maybe  so.  But  they're  tough 
and  don't  care  and  laugh  and  carry  on,  but  Anne  Villet 
don't  laugh  or  carry  on,  and  is  kinder  suspicious  of  every 
body.  There's  a  lot  of  difference  between  them  two 
kinds  of  toughness." 

I  don't  doubt  she  was  right.  Anyhow,  this  new  girl 
come  and  went,  and  what  was  inside  her  nobody  knew. 
Once  Joe  Bent  met  her  coming  down  over  the  hill  to  the 
factory,  and  said  a  word  or  two  to  her.  And  I  can  see 
her  yet  —  how  she  looked  up  like  somebody  does  to  see 
whether  it's  going  to  rain,  and  then  pointed  her  finger  at 
him  sharp  and  quick  and  says  to  him,  "Gwan  now  and 


146  JIM  HANDS 

sell  your  papers."  So  I  knew  she  was  from  some  big 
city. 

I  guess  Bent  was  the  last  one  that  tried  to  say  any 
thing  pleasant  to  her  except  old  Joe  Paul.  The  old 
man  come  down  one  afternoon  after  noon  hour,  and 
before  he  went  down  to  his  work  he  shuffled  into  the 
packing-room  where  she  was  marking  sizes,  and  he  went 
up  to  her  and  looked  at  the  floor. 

And  he  says,  "I  brought  yer  a  book,"  he  says,  laying 
one  down  on  the  bench.  "It's  called  'Ten  American 
Heroes/  he  says,  "by  a  man  named  Thaddeus  B. 
Wetherby,"  he  says  "I  thought  maybe  you  had  a  lot 
of  time  alone  to  yourself,"  he  says. 

Well,  you  could  see  in  a  flash  how  she  kinder  stiffened 
up  and  got  on  the  defensive  just  as  she  always  did,  and 
her  face  looked  harder  and  drier  than  ever.  But  when 
she  turned  around  and  seen  that  old  fool  with  his  hat  off, 
looking  at  the  floor  and  his  square-toed  boots,  and 
smoothing  his  gray  hair,  the  look  kinder  slid  off 
her  face,  slow,  and  she  reached  out  as  if  she  was  going 
to  touch  him  on  the  sleeve  of  that  faded  brown 
overcoat  of  his. 

"Say,"  says  she,  "I'm  much  obliged,"  she  says,  and 
maybe  she'd  have  said  more  if  her  cough  hadn't  stopped 
her,  and  before  she  was  through  coughing  old  Joe  Paul 
had  scuffed  his  way  downstairs. 

I  suppose  anybody  would  have  known  if  they  had 
taken  notice  that  she  was  coughing  all  the  time.  I  guess 


JIM  HANDS  147 

she  weren't  very  well.  I  guess  it  was  mostly  her  tough 
ness  that  she  was  living  on. 

Anyhow,  the  old  man  noticed  it.  He  noticed  it  just  the 
same  as  he  noticed  that  she  didn't  go  with  anybody  and 
never  even  spoke  to  anybody.  Father  Ryan  had  been 
to  see  her,  and  he  had  shook  his  head  at  me  when  he  told 
me,  and  he  says,  "Jim,  she  maybe  is  a  Catholic  and 
maybe  not.  I  can't  get  it  out  of  her,"  he  says,  shaking 
his  head  and  smoothing  his  chin  on  the  back  of  his  hand, 
"and,"  he  says,  "I  despair  of  leading  her,"  he  says. 
"There  is  now  and  then  a  woman  that  has  had  some 
kinds  of  leading  so  much,"  he  says,  "that  they  won't  be 
led  no  more  by  nobody,"  he  says,  "though  I  suppose," 
he  says,  "that  it  is  out  of  the  way  for  me  to  be  admitting 
failure  to  soften  a  heart,"  he  says,  "be  it  as  hard  as  your 
mother-in-law's  pie  crust,"  he  says,  for  he  was  always 
forgetting  the  business  of  life  for  his  little  joke.  And 
maybe  even  Father  Ryan,  with  his  blue  eye,  that  had 
seen  many  a  good  sinful  old  soul  come  and  go,  didn't 
see  what  old  Paul  had  seen. 

It  was  one  day  after  work  when  I  went  into  the 
wash-room  that  I  caught  a  bit  of  it.  For  I  heard 
voices  under  the  winder,  and  I  knew  that  the  factory  had 
let  out  half  an  hour  before,  and  I  wondered  who  it  was 
that  was  hanging  around.  So  I  stuck  my  head  out,  and 
then  I  seen  it  was  them  two  just  below  —  Anne  Villet 
with  her  black  hat  and  old  Joe  Paul.  She  was  sitting 
on  a  empty  wooden  packing-box,  and  he  was  trying  to 


148  JIM  HANDS 

look  at  her  with  his  watery  eyes.  And  they  was  talking 
together. 

Of  course  I  couldn't  help  hearing  'em,  and  from  what 
they  was  talking  about  you  could  tell  that  the  girl  had 
just  had  one  of  them  fits  of  coughing,  and  maybe  had  got 
a  little  dizzy  and  sat  down,  and  old  Paul  had  seen  her 
and  had  come  up. 

"  You're  sick,"  he  says,  fooling  with  the  buttons  on  his 
coat.  "There  ain't  any  use  trying  to  say  you  ain't," 
he  says.  "  You've  been  worrying  me  for  weeks.  Well, 
now  let  me  explain,"  he  says.  "  I've  been  noticing. 
You  remember  the  evening  you  stopped  to  rest  by  my 
door  up  there,"  he  says.  "I  knew  you  was  sick,  you 
was  so  short-breathed.  And  I  lit  a  match,  pretending 
it  was  for  my  pipe,  but  it  was  to  see  your  face,  girl," 
he  says.  "I'm  a  good  deal  older  than  you,"  he  says. 
"You  take  my  advice,  and  don't  work  for  a  while,  and 
live  mostly  on  milk,"  he  says. 

With  that  she  kinder  flattened  herself  up  against  the 
factory  wall  and  steadied  herself  on  it  with  the  flat  of  her 
hands.  ' '  What  do  you  care  ?  "  she  says.  ' '  I  ain't  your 
daughter  or  nothing.  What  do  you  care?  It's  none 
of  your  business  what's  the  matter  with  me.  It's 
nobody's  business  but  mine,  and  I  don't  care."  And 
with  that  she  give  a  laugh.  "I  guess  I  am  sick.  I  don't 
know.  Maybe  I'll  cash  in.  What  do  I  care  ?  " 

The  old  man,  I  could  see,  kinder  stepped  back  as  if 
she'd  hit  him  in  the  mouth.  He  was  studying  for  a 


JIM  HANDS  149 

minute,  and  then  he  says,  as  if  it  was  the  last  thing  in 
the  world  he'd  believe,  "  Aren't  you  afraid  of  death?  " 
he  says. 

"No,"  she  says.  "It's  all  the  same  to  me  whether 
I  keep  on  or  stop ;  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  I  know 
where  I  get  off  !  "  she  says. 

Old  Joe  Paul  give  a  little  gasp  and  kinder  shook 
himself,  and  I  heard  him  say,  "  It's  funny  how  different 
people's  instincts  are,"  he  says.  "I  guess  I've  had  a 
dread  of  death  and  injury,"  he  says,  "since  I  was 
born,"  he  says.  "I've  always  been  afraid.  I'd  give 
anything  in  the  world  not  to  care." 

She  was  coughing  again,  but  when  she  stopped  she 
says,  "Nonsense!"  she  says.  "What  yer  want  and 
what  you're  afraid  of  is  all  an  idea,  that's  all." 

With  that  he  shook  his  head.  "It  ain't  so,"  he  says. 
"My  fear  ain't  never  been  in  my  mind,"  he  says.  "It's 
been  in  my  body.  It's  in  the  body!"  says  he.  "I 
couldn't  never  play  ball  when  I  was  young,"  he  says, 
"for  I  never  could  see  anything  coming  toward  me  with 
out  dodging,"  he  says. 

"Oh,  dodge  nothing !  "  she  says,  with  her  bold  voice. 

The  old  feller  looked  at  her  then,  and  he  put  his  hand 
out  and  touched  her  on  the  arm.  "Girl,"  he  says, 
"don't  be  cross  with  me.  I  like  you.  If  I'd  had  a 
daughter  -  '  he  says,  and  stopped.  I  suppose  he  was 
lonesome.  And  he  touched  her  arm  again. 

And  with  that  she  give  a  scream  and  drew  her  arm 


150  JIM  HANDS 

back  quick  —  snatched  it  away.  I  can  hear  her  voice 
now,  rough  and  angry,  like  a  snapping  dog's.  "Quit 
that !  "  she  says.  "If  you  made  me  cry,  do  you  know 
what  I'd  do  ?  I'd  kill  you  ! "  she  says. 

The  old  feller  kinder  staggered  back,  ducking  his 
head,  and  he  went  shuffling  along  up  the  path  from  the 
boiler-room,  with  his  head  bent  over  as  if  somebody  was 
going  to  hit  him  over  the  head  with  the  flat  of  an  axe. 
And  the  girl  stood  up  below  the  winder  there,  breathing 
hard  and  holding  herself  till  he  was  out  of  sight,  and  then 
she  turned  face  to  the  wall,  and  she  really  begun  to  cry. 

She  was  sick  the  next  day  —  sick  enough  so  she 
couldn't  get  up,  they  said.  I  don't  believe  anybody 
paid  much  attention  to  it.  She  was  out  three  days, 
according  to  Joe  Bent,  her  foreman,  and  then  she  come 
back  the  middle  of  a  morning,  kinder  dizzy  and  un 
certain  on  her  feet,  with  her  jaw  set  and  the  hard  look 
in  her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Bent,"  she  says,  speaking  rough,  "I  ain't  ready 
to  be  fooled  with,  and  I  want  to  know  who  it  was  got 
so  smart  when  I  was  down  and  out  and  sent  me  things 
to  eat,  and  milk,  and  paid  the  doctor.  I  didn't  know 
about  it  till  to-day,  and  I  don't  want  nobody  paying 
anything  for  me.  I  ain't  asked  no  favors  of  anybody," 
she  says,  "and  I  don't  want  none.  Listen  to  me  !  "  she 
says.  "If  you  know  who  it  was,  tell  'em  from  me  to 
stop  it  if  they  don't  want  trouble  in  car-load  lots,"  she 
says,  "whether  it's  a  man  or  a  woman,"  she  says. 


JIM  HANDS  151 

Bent  is  got  a  mean  streak  in  him,  as  I've  already  said. 
"  Well/'  he  says,  "  I  can  tell  yer  who  sent  them  things," 
says  he.  "  It  was  Joe  Paul,"  he  says. 

She  kinder  caught  her  breath  then,  and  looked  around 
to  see  if  anybody 'd  heard  him,  and  a  little  smile  come 
into  her  face,  and  she  caught  the  edge  of  the  bench  she 
was  that  weak  and  sick,  and  she  sat  down  in  a  chair 
and  stared  out  the  window,  just  as  if  she  was  thinking 
and  didn't  see  nothing.  And  she  sat  there  staring  and 
never  moving  until  one  of  the  girls  from  the  packing- 
room  had  been  ordered  down  to  help  her  to  walk  back 
to  Mrs.  Jordan's  boarding-house. 

She  was  bad  off.  It  was  a  week  before  she  was  walk 
ing  around  again,  and  I  heard  from  Mrs.  Jordan  that  old 
'*  man  Paul  was  paying  for  the  expense,  and  had  made 
Mrs.  Jordan  promise  not  to  tell  anybody.  It  was  getting 
dark  early  them  days,  for  it  was  before  spring  had  done 
any  more  than  melt  all  the  snow  off  and  fill  the  valley 
with  fogs  from  the  thaws  and  the  smell  of  half-froze  mud, 
and  the  old  man  used  ter  wait  till  the  doctor  come  in  the 
evening  to  go  up  there  and  see  the  girl  and  talk  to  her 
and  stand  her  abuse  and  rough  ways.  And  yet  Mrs.  Jor 
dan  said  the  girl  had  changed  some.  She  let  the  old  man 
help  her  out.  I  couldn't  hardly  believe  it.  And  she 
even  liked  to  have  him  come  and  talk  with  her  between 
her  fits  of  coughing  —  not  that  he  said  much,  but  just 
because  it  seemed  to  give  her  satisfaction  to  watch  him 
setting  by  the  winder  in  a  rocking-chair,  with  his  old 


152  JIM  HANDS 

hook-hands  hanging  by  his  sides,  until  the  light  had 
all  gone,  and  maybe  she'd  dropped  off  into  a  doze. 
Then  he'd  get  up  and  shuffle  out  of  the  room  and  fill 
his  big  pipe  going  down  the  stairs. 

After  a  while  we  heard  from  Doc  Ward  that  she  was 
getting  better.  Not  cured — but  stronger  and  able  to  sit 
up.  "Why,"  says  Ward,  "it's  a  marvel  what  a  lot  of 
fight  in  the  mind  she  has,"  he  says,  "and  what  a  lot  of 
strength  can  be  in  a  poor,  thin,  worn-out  body,"  he  says. 

But  at  the  end  of  them  days  it  was  getting  to  be  warm 
weather  again,  and  the  spring  rains  had  started  things 
growing  green  and  soft  once  more  when  she  come  back 
to  work,  though  I  guess  there  weren't  half  a  dozen  people 
in  the  whole  factory  paid  any  attention  to  it.  I  under 
stood  that  Doc  Ward  and  old  Joe  Paul  had  done  their 
best  to  stop  her,  but  she  was  running  herself  like  some 
of  them  who've  had  enough  of  doing  things  suggested 
by  others.  She  was  back  punching  the  time-clock, 
and  silent  as  ever. 

She  was  silent  as  ever  and  as  much  to  herself,  but  there 
seemed  to  be  a  change  in  her,  somehow.  Anyhow, 
Bent  told  me  he  thought  so.  He  said  she  didn't  flare  up 
the  way  she  used  ter  do.  "You've  seen  a  horse,  Jim," 
he  says,  "that  when  you  rattle  the  whip  in  the  holder 
wants  to  run  away  or  kick  out  the  dasher.  That's  the 
way  she  was,"  he  says ;  "but  now,"  he  says,  "she's  like 
one  of  them  horses  that's  got  over  being  ugly,  and 
stands  the  whip  and  sticks  his  head  and  ears  down  and 


JIM  HANDS  153 

won't  change  his  pace,  no  matter  what  happens,"  he 
says.  "  There's  something  that  ain't  quite  so  tough 
about  her,"  says  he. 

Maybe  it  was  so,  for  I  believe  I  seen  her  smile  a  couple 
of  times  myself.  A  look  of  it  would  come  over  her  when 
she'd  watch  old  Joe  Paul  go  up  the  path  toward  the 
Canuck  settlement  after  a  working  day  was  over. 

It's  strange  how  things  go  out  of  yer  mind.  I  hadn't 
thought  of  either  of  them  two  strange  specimens  for  a 
long  time  till  the  second  Saturday  noon  when  the  feller 
who  used  to  be  foreman  of  the  basement  room  here 
seen  me  going  out  through  the  office  with  a  handful  of  re 
ports  for  the  Old  Boss,  and  hollered  out  after  me. 

I  stopped,  and  he  says  to  me,  "  Say,  Jim,"  he  says, 
"you  ain't  seen  old  man  Paul,  have  yer?  He  ain't 
been  down  to-day." 

I  shook  my  head ;  I  was  thinking  of  something  else, 
I  guess,  and  it  went  out  of  my  mind,  as  I  say.  Of  course 
if  I'd  stopped  I'd  have  remembered.  I'd  have  remem 
bered  he  never  lost  an  hour  before  since  he  come  into 
the  factory.  But  I  never  thought. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  I  can  draw  a  picture  of 
it.  I  never  seen  such  rain !  When  I  woke  up  in  the 
morning,  it  was  splashing  against  my  winder,  and  by 
noon  there  was  a  big  cut  in  the  road  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  we  had  to  put  a  dish-pan  under  a  place  in  little 
Mike's  room  where  the  water  had  come  through  the 
ceiling.  There  was  no  use  of  me  and  Annie  and  Kather- 
ine  trying  to  go  to  the  church,  and  I  wondered  how 
Father  Ryan  would  make  up  his  mind  to  go  himself. 
The  water  was  just  splashing  down  and  going  slantwise 
with  the  wind. 

It  had  been  a  dull  day,  without  even  a  Sunday  paper, 
which  is  no  good  anyhow,  except  that  you're  always 
hoping  to  see  something  in  it  the  next  time  you  look. 
It  was  dark  early  by  the  thick  clouds  and  the  heavy 
weather,  and  all  of  us  was  sleepy  from  doing  nothing  and 
eating  too  much  supper. 

Maybe  that  was  the  reason  it  jumped  me  when  there 
come  them  sharp  raps  on  the  front  door.  It  was  a  wild 
night  with  the  howl  and  yell  of  the  wind,  and  when  I 
turned  the  knob  a  chunk  of  the  wet  come  in  to  make  me 
step  back,  and  half  filled  my  face  with  water.  Whoever 
it  was  pushed  their  way  in,  and  then  I  seen  it  was  Anne 

154 


JIM  HANDS  155 

Villct.  She  was  out  of  breath,  as  though  she'd  been 
running,  and  she  had  no  hat,  and  her  umbrella  had  been 
blown  inside  out.  Her  face  was  white,  too.  I'll  never 
forget  it. 

"  Mercy  on  us,"  says  Annie,  behind  me,  raising  her 
hands.  "How  many  of  yer?  What's  the  matter?" 
says  she.  "  Have  yer  seen  a  ghost  ?"  she  says. 

"  No,"  says  the  girl,  throwing  her  umbrella  into  the 
corner  and  walking  with  them  quick  steps  into  the 
parlor,  where  she  squinted  with  the  light.  "No,"  she 
says,  trying  to  get  her  breath,  and  coughing.  "Old 
Joe  Paul  is  dying." 

"What!  "says  I. 

"  You  heard  what  I  said,"  she  says,  sticking  her  finger 
at  me.  "The  doctor  was  there  yesterday.  I  was  up 
at  the  old  man's  shack  all  last  night,"  she  says.  "He 
had  a  stroke.  The  doctor  said  he'd  cash  in  the  next  time 
he  had  one,"  she  says,  panting,  "Do  you  understand 
that  ?  It  won't  be  a  couple  of  hours  more  before  it's  all 
over,  and  the  doctor  has  gone  over  to  Dayton's  Mill," 
she  says. 

"How  did  you  know  this?"  says  Katherine. 

"How  did  I  know?"  says  she.  "You're  wasting 
talk,"  she  says.  "I  sat  up  with  him  since  four  o'clock 
yesterday  afternoon,  that's  how!" 

'  You  poor  girl !  What  can  we  do  ?"  says  Annie,  for 
speech  was  all  knocked  out  of  me.  "  What  did  yer  come 
here  for?" 


156  JIM  HANDS 

"  I  come  here,"  says  the  girl,  leaning  up  against  the 
table,  with  her  yellow  hair  hanging  in  wet  strings,  "  be 
cause  I  thought  that  man,"  she  says,  pointing  to  me, 
"was  straight  and  had  some  sense,"  she  says. 

"Jim !"  says  my  Annie  to  me.  "Can't  you  be  alive," 
she  says.  "  What  can  we  do  ?  " 

The  girl  straightened  up  and  her  jaw  kinder  set  and 
she  says,  "Listen  to  me,"  she  says.  " Get  him  a  band — • 
a  brass  band  —  a  band  with  drums." 

At  that  I  guess  the  two  of  us  looked  at  her  as  if  she 
had  been  as  crazy  as  a  straw  in  a  whirlwind. 

"A  band!"  says  Katherine,  with  her  eyes  as  big  as 
butter-plates. 

"What's  the  matter  with  yer?"  says  the  Villet  girl, 
talking  faster  and  rougher.  "Yes,  a  band!"  she  says. 
"You  don't  know  about  him.  Well,  there  ain't  much 
time  to  tell  it.  Now  listen!  I  know  about  this  just 
the  same  as  he  knows  about  me,  see?"  she  says,  "and 
he  knows  it  all." 

" There  was  a  war,"  she  says,  going  on,  "a  war.  It 
was  the  Civil  War.  And  this  old  man  was  young  then," 
she  says.  "  He  was  not  much  more  than  a  boy.  Oh,  I 
ain't  got  time  to  tell  it  all." 

"A  band?"  says  my  Annie,  as  if  she  didn't  under 
stand.  That  was  enough  to  start  the  girl  on  her  story 
again.  "My  God,  yes!"  she  says.  "There  was  bands 
playing  and  men  marching,  and  he  was  full  of  it.  He 
went  with  'em.  He  had  to  go  with  'em.  He  joined  the 


JIM  HANDS  157 

army.  He's  told  me  about  it  in  pieces.  They  went  to 
Washington  on  the  train,  and  marched  through  the 
mud  days  and  days,  with  their  guns  and  bands  and  all. 
I  can  see  'em  just  as  if  I'd  been  there.  He  didn't  mind 
the  being  tired  or  hungry  or  none  of  them  things.  He 
had  grit.  I  understand  him  all  right,  and  he  knows 
it." 

"The  Civil  War?"   says  I. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  "  that  was  it — the  Civil  War.  And 
he  got  a  letter  from  home,  and  the  next  day  they  come  to 
a  place  called  the  something  Forks,  with  pine  trees,  and 
over  the  hill  there  was  guns  going  off  and  smoke.  An 
ambulance  wagon  come  by,  and  there  was  fellers  in  it 
that  had  been  torn  up  with  fighting.  It  made  him  sick. 
It  weren't  his  fault.  There  was  courage  in  his  mind. 
But  his  legs  wouldn't  stand  for  it.  His  body  and  his 
stomach  wouldn't  stand  for  it." 

She  had  a  fit  of  coughing  then,  and  she  stuffed  her 
hand  over  her  mouth. 

"And  then,"  she  says,  "he  sneaked  into  them  pine 
woods,  and  he  seen  a  flag  waving  over  the  ridge  a  second, 
and  he  sat  behind  a  tree  and  cried  because  he  couldn't 
fight  —  because  his  body  wouldn't  let  him  fight.  And 
he  went  back  through  the  woods.  He  deserted.  He 
ran  away.  He  went  back  near  his  home  once,  and  at 
night  he  looked  at  the  house  where  his  folks  was. 
They'd  found  out  he'd  deserted.  So  he  couldn't  go  in 
and  see  any  of  'em.  I  know  how  he  felt.  I've  been  in 


158  JIM  HANDS 

the  same  fix.  He  couldn't  disgrace  'em.  And  he  never 
seen  'em  again.  It  had  bust  his  spirit,"  she  says. 

"  He  looks  at  the  ground  now/'  I  says. 

"Yes/'  says  she,  "and  you've  seen  dogs  that  will 
flinch  and  duck  like  him.  He  ain't  to  blame.  It 
happened  in  three  minutes.  He's  been  trying  to  repair 
it  for  forty-five  years.  There's  some  things  that  ain't 
never  got  rid  of  by  men  and  women/'  she  says. 

"That's  true,  I  believe,"  says  Katherine,  very  soft. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  says.  "  You're  weak  with  climbing 
the  hill." 

"  No,"  says  the  girl,  shaking  her  head  and  shutting 
her  thin  hands.  "  Nothing  seems  to  make  up  for  some 
things,"  she  says,  going  on.  "It  don't  seem  to  make 
any  difference  how  honest  or  straight  or  kind  he  is,  the 
ducking  and  flinching  follers  him  just  the  same.  And 
now,"  she  says,  "it's  the  last  chance  to  wipe  it  all 
away,"  says  she,  "and  I've  got  to  have  a  band!" 

"A  band!"  I  says  again. 

"  Yes !"  she  says.  "  Listen  to  me.  I'd  do  anything 
for  a  brass  band  —  maybe  two  or  three  instruments 
and  a  drum.  Why,  look  at  me.  It's  a  yoke.  I've 
prayed  for  a  band,  Me!"  she  says.  "Don't  you  see? 
He's  a  bit  light  in  the  head.  And  he  thinks  the  com 
pany  of  soldiers  is  coming  for  him.  He  thinks  there  is 
another  war.  He  thinks  they've  got  the  same  flags. 
He  thinks  they've  got  the  same  men.  My  God,  he  must 
have  that  satisfaction !  He  must  hear  a  band  outside  ! 


JIM  HANDS  159 

Don't  yer  understand?    He  thinks  they're  going  to 
take  him  back  —  let  him  join  again!    And  he  thinks 
that  this  time  he  won't  duck  or  flinch  but  just  fight  - 
fight  —  fight." 

" Mercy  on  us,"  says  Annie,  "won't  anything  else 
do?" 

"  No,"  the  girl  says,  "  that's  the  one  thing.  Just 
a  moment  is  enough.  Don't  I  know?  Don't  I  get  to 
wishing  for  one  thing  I  can't  have.  I  don't  want  pity. 
It  makes  me  tired.  I  can't  stand  it.  I  don't  want 
people  to  be  sorry  for  what  I  ain't.  I'd  like  to  feel 
just  once  for  a  moment  that  I  was  everything  to  some 
body — I  don't  care  who — because  of  what  I  am,"  she 
says.  "Now  do  you  see?  Just  for  one  moment.  And 
so  he  must  hear  a  band  coming,"  she  says,  breathing 
hard. 

'Yes,"  says  I,  speaking,  half  afraid  of  her.  "We 
got  to  have  a  band,"  and  I  started  to  think. 

Then  I  seen  Katherine  was  plucking  at  her  dress. 
"Father,"  says  she,  "there  is  Fred  who  works  at  the 
barber  shop.  He  plays  with  the  Light  Guards.  He  has 
a  cornet,"  she  says,  "  and  old  Cady  with  the  drum,"  she 
says ;  "  they  don't  live  far.  It's  a  bad  night,"  she  says, 
"  and  they'll  be  in.  And  Moses  Dayton  plays  the  horn, 
don't  he?"  she  says.  "Dad!"  she  says,  opening  the 
closet  door  and  pulling  down  a  rain  coat.  "It's  got 
to  be  done !  You  go  back  with  the  girl  to  the  old  man's 
shack.  'Twould  be  a  crime  if  anything  happened  to 


160  JIM  HANDS 

him  while  he  was  alone.    Take  the  girl  and  hurry," 
she  says.     "  I'll  do  my  best/'  she  says. 

With  that  she  opened  the  door  and  was  lost  in  the 
black  as  if  she'd  gone  behind  a  curtain. 

"Come  —  you!"  says  the  Villet  girl.  And  so  I  just 
grabbed  my  coat  and  follered  her. 

I'll  not  forget  the  slap  of  the  sleet.  There  was  times 
when  I  could  scarce  see  the  girl,  who  run  along  beside 
me.  We  went  stumbling  down  the  hill  to  the  old  covered 
bridge,  where  the  wind  hollered,  and  up  the  hill  on  the 
other  side.  And  up  there,  where  the  road  runs  close  to 
the  edge  of  the  river-bank,  I  seen  the  light  from  the 
winder  in  his  little  shack.  It  seemed  to  kinder  nicker* 
there  was  that  much  storm.  And  I  thought  of  the  old 
pipe  with  the  big  bowl  he  uster  smoke  after  supper. 

We  pushed  in  the  door,  she  in  front,  and  I  seen  over 
her  shoulder  that  he  was  lying  on  the  bed,  and  I  thought 
maybe  we  was  too  late.  But  the  rush  of  air  made  him 
move  a  little,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  once  and  closed 
'em.  And  I  heard  her  give  a  little  cry  as  if  she  was 
satisfied. 

There  weren't  much  light  —  just  a  old  kerosene  lamp 
with  a  dirty  chimney.  It  was  enough  for  me  to  look 
around.  I'd  never  been  in  there  before.  His  clothes 
was  hanging  to  nails  on  the  wall,  and  in  one  corner  there 
was  a  cheap  bunting  flag  hanging  down  from  the  ceiling. 
There  was  a  leak  in  the  back  room,  and  you  could  hear 
the  drops  slap  on  a  tin  dish,  even  and  slow  and  ugly. 


JIM  HANDS  161 

"  Is  there  anything  to  do?"  I  whispers. 

"No,"  she  says,  " there  ain't." 

So  I  sat  down. 

By  and  by  she  pointed  at  him  with  her  finger,  kinder 
biting  her  lip,  and  she  says:  "It's  funny,  ain't  it,  how 
things  happen.  He's  the  only  thing  I  cared  anything 
for,"  she  says. 

And  from  that  on  she  never  said  nothing.  Once  he 
moved,  and  she  poured  some  water  out  of  a  pitcher  into 
a  white  cup,  but  he  only  looked  up  at  her  and  nodded 
and  shut  his  eyes  again.  I  could  almost  feel  my  ears 
stretching  open  for  the  sound  of  something  besides  the 
dropping  of  that  water  in  the  back  room,  or  maybe  it 
was  for  the  sound  of  a  drum. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  old  man  started  up.  I  guess 
he  forgot  he  was  in  bed. 

"Listen!"  he  says.  "Are  they  coming?  Anne," 
he  says,  "  I've  got  good  news  for  you.  The  company 
is  going  to  take  me  back.  The  old  town  will  know  there 
ain't  anything  the  matter  with  me  then,"  he  says. 
"  They'll  know  I  was  only  a  boy.  They'll  know  when 
men  is  wanted  I'll  be  ready.  It's  funny  why  they  don't 
come,"  he  says,  with  trouble  in  his  face.  "A  whole 
regiment  marched  through  this  morning.  They  was 
covered  with  dust.  They'd  been  going  since  daybreak 
to  get  to  the  main  line,"  he  says. 

And  then  for  awhile  he  was  quiet,  as  if  he  was  listening. 
"They  called  us  deserters,  Anne,"  he  says,  beginning 


162  JIM  HANDS 

again.  "  You  and  me  —  each  in  our  way.  Well,  that's 
all  gone  by, ' '  he  says.  ' '  Listen, "  he  says ;  ' '  did  you  hear 
music  ?"  he  says.  "  I  don't  see  why  they're  late.  This 
time  I  won't  fail  'em.  I  expect  they'll  be  here  soon. 
And  then  I  can  start,"  he  says,  pointing  with  one  of  his 
bent  hands.  I  remember  how  noisy  the  wind  was. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  I  seen  his  eyes  open  wide  and  a 
bit  of  blood  come  into  his  face,  and  them  droopy  lines 
tightened  up.  "Listen ! "  he  says.  "They're  coming ! " 

At  that  the  Villet  girl  stood  up.  And  in  spite  of  the 
noise  of  the  rain  on  the  roof  and  the  wind  we  could  hear 
a  drum,  and  then  sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  there  was 
a  cornet  with  it.  And  then  it  stopped.  It  was  just  as 
if  ghosts  had  been  playing. 

The  old  man,  though,  was  all  alive.  "They've  halted," 
he  says,  "they've  halted  in  front  of  the  Court-house," 
he  says.  "They're  coming.  I'm  glad  I  got  a  pair  of 
shoes  that  was  easy.  It  makes  a  heap  of  difference," 
he  says,  and  blinks  his  watery  old  eyes. 

And  then  suddenly  I  heard  them  boys  with  a  horn 
and  a  drum  and  a  cornet  —  there  was  three  of  'em ! 
It  weren't  a  hundred  yards  away  and  coming  nearer 
through  the  rain.  And  the  old  man  commenced  to 
beat  time  with  his  hands. 

' ' They're  here !  "  he  says.    ' '  Now  I  can  start.   They're 
going  to  take  me  with  'em.    The  same  old  company  - 
eighty-four  men  and  officers.     Well,"   he   says,  "it's 
time  to  say  good-by." 


JIM  HANDS  163 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  head  cocked  on  one  side  and 
his  gray  hair  all  mussed  up,  but  didn't  seem  to  see  me 
at  all,  nor  my  girl  Katherine,  who  had  stepped  inside  the 
door.  He  looked  around  until  he  seen  Anne  Villet. 

"Come  here,  girl,"  he  says. 

The  music  was  nearer.  It  was  a  march  and  didn't 
sound  very  good,  but  it  was  a  march,  and  loud  and 
gingery.  And  then  Anne  went  over  to  him,  and  he  pulled 
her  down  toward  him  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"I've  got  to  say  good-by  to  you,  girl,"  he  says. 
"It's  kinder  hard,  but  then  when  it's  all  over  and  we 
come  marching  back  with  flags  waving  and  everybody 
cheering,  you'll  be  glad  then,"  he  says.  "Don't  you 
mind,  Anne,"  he  says,  "whatever  they  say  to  you. 
You  know  how  I  feel.  You've  got  courage,  Anne,"- 
he  says.  "You've  got  courage  and  grit  enough  for  two," 
he  says.  "Why,  I  love  you  just  as  if  you  was  my 
daughter.  And  I'm  so  proud  of  you,"  he  says,  and  he 
tried  to  bend  over  toward  her. 

The  music  had  come  up  to  the  shack,  and  only  the 
drum  was  playing  then. 

"Well,"  says  he,  "they've  come,"  and  he  give  a  sigh 
as  if  he  was  contented.  "Come,  Anne.  Hand  me 
my  hat,"  he  says,  pointing  with  his  ringer  at  a  cushion 
in  the  chair. 

I  guess  she  never  heard  him.  She'd  kinder  buried 
her  face  in  the  bedclothes.  So  he  reached  out  and 
caught  the  cushion  in  his  old  fingers,  and  he  tried  to 


164  JIM  HANDS 

put  it  on  his  head.  It  was  stuffed  with  them  pine 
needles.  And  it  kept  falling  off  in  spite  of  all  he  could 
do.  I  almost  laughed. 

But  when  I  looked  again,  I  got  up  and  went  to  the 
door  and  says  out  into  the  wind  and  the  rain,  "  That's 
enough,"  and  the  drum  stopped.  And  then  I  looked 
back  into  the  room  and  seen  Anne  Villet.  Come  from 
nowhere !  But  right  then  I  seen  by  the  light  of  that 
dirty  kerosene  light  that  she  had  got  what  she  wanted 
as  well  as  him.  She  stood  beside  the  bed  there  staring 
out  at  nothing,  with  a  smile.  You'd  never  have  known 
her. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

IT  was  Katherine  who  first  spoke  in  that  room.  She 
had  come  in,  and  she  went  up  to  the  other  girl  and  she 
took  her  in  her  arms  as  if  it  was  a  comfort  to  her  to 
have  something  to  care  for.  "Girl,"  she  says,  "don't 
pull  yourself  away  from  me  like  that.  You're  all  tired 
out  —  all  tired  out,"  she  says.  "So  am  I,"  she  says. 
"You're  going  home  with  me  for  a  while." 

And  Anne  Villet  looked  around  at  her,  and  for  the 
first  time  I  seen  the  moment  she  weren't  suspicious. 
She  looked  into  Katherine's  face  as  if  she  was  hunting 
for  something  there,  and  then  after  a  minute  she  says, 
"You  are  tired  out,  aren't  you?  "  she  says.  "I  guess 
I  understand,"  she  says. 

"Katherine!"  I  says,  kind  of  quick.  But  my  girl 
stopped  me. 

"She's  going  home  with  us  for  a  few  days,"  says  she 
over  again.  "I  won't  let  her  go  back  to  that  Mrs. 
Jordan's.  And  my  mother  will  be  glad  to  have  her 
come,"  and  I  seen  her  chin  move  out  the  way  my 
Annie's  does  when  I  know  I  ain't  going  to  have  my  way. 

That  was  how  Anne  Villet  came  into  the  house,  and 
Katherine,  though  she  never  said  anything  about  it, 
was  trying  to  make  the  poor  thing  all  over  again. 

165 


166  JIM  HANDS 

Maybe  them  things  don't  seem  to  some  people  like  they 
do  to  me. 

The  spring  had  come  then.  And  in  those  days,  with 
the  sun  and  the  wind  kinder  soft,  and  tips  of  green 
showing  here  and  there,  and  maybe  birds  you  haven't 
seen  all  winter  turning  up  and  sitting  on  the  ridge-pole 
of  the  barn,  and  them  insects  piping  in  the  marsh,  it's 
a  feller's  inclination  to  kinder  half  shut  his  eyes  and 
watch  what's  going  on  and  think  about  it  —  like  them 
toads  that  come  out  and  sit  on  the  gravel  walk  do. 

I  used  to  watch  Annie — how  she  didn't  like  to  have 
the  strange  girl  in  the  home,  and  yet  wouldn't  see  her 
go  away  while  she  was  still  weak  and  sick.  And  I  used 
to  watch  Katherine  —  how  she'd  never  let  Anne  Villet 
into  her  life,  but  how  she  tried  to  squeeze  herself  into 
the  life  of  the  other  girl  and  kind  of  soften  her  and  make 
her  different.  And  I  used  to  watch  Anne  Villet  when 
she  would  follow  my  girl  around  with  her  eyes.  But 
most  of  all  I  seen  that  it  weren't  so  much  that  Katherine 
was  getting  ahead  any  as  it  was  that  she  was,  without 
knowing  it,  changing  herself.  She  was  more  like  her 
self  in  them  days  —  more  the  old  look  in  her  eyes. 

Of  course  I  wondered  sometimes  about  Bob  Harvey. 
I'd  got  to  like  him,  and  I  wondered  if  he  still  wanted 
Katherine  and  thought  of  her.  Once  that  June  a  letter 
came  from  him  to  her ;  there  was  only  one  word  on  the 
sheet,  and  the  next  day  I  heard  Katherine  sing  again 
the  way  she  used  to.  I  told  her  that  night  that  I 


JIM  HANDS  167 

noticed  it.  She  only  shook  her  head  and  showed  me 
the  letter.  The  word  was  "  Katherine."  No  name  signed 
or  anything.  Just  something  like  a  voice  calling,  and 
that  was  all.  But  she  shook  her  head  and  sang  no 
more. 

Then  we  heard  he  had  come  home.  His  college  was 
through  for  that  year.  I  thought  I  seen  him  walk  by 
the  house  one  evening,  and  then  I  heard  he'd  gone 
away  again,  and  it  was  said  he'd  gone  because  his  old 
est  sister  had  come  up  with  her  husband  —  the  little 
New  York  broker  that  Bob  didn't  like. 

The  Boss's  oldest  daughter  isn't  liked  very  well  her 
self  in  this  town.  But  after  all,  people  is  mostly  alike. 
We're  always  saying  how  they're  different.  But  they 
ain't.  Maybe  their  clothes  is  different.  It's  the  crease 
in  the  pants  or  the  bird  on  the  hat  that  makes  it.  Under 
neath  they  is  all  cut  out  of  the  same  piece  of  leather, 
just  like  the  tips  on  a  case  of  shoes  that  we  turn  out 
down  there  at  the  shop.  Maybe  some  tips  is  plain, 
maybe  some  is  scalloped,  and  maybe  some  is  punched 
with  fancy  holes  —  it's  the  same  leather.  Ben  Joline 
was  big-hearted,  but  he  was  a  good  deal  like  Dave 
Pierson,  who's  got  a  soul  about  the  size  of  an  earth 
worm's  tooth.  And  my  wife  Annie,  who  I  wouldn't 
swap  for  a  pick  of  all  the  women  on  the  map,  is,  after 
all,  considerable  like  round-faced  Bessie  Eastman,  who 
works  on  the  books  at  the  office,  and  would  be  swapped 
by  her  husband  —  poor  devil  —  for  a  box  of  safety 


168  JIM  HANDS 

matches.  At  the  bottom  they're  the  same  animals. 
And  then  the  Boss's  oldest  daughter  was  like  Carrie 
Pierson  —  Dave's  wife  !  There  was  a  contrast  for  yer. 
You'd  say  those  two  was  about  as  alike  as  a  fire-escape 
is  like  a  rowboat,  putting  aside  the  fact  that  both  of 
'em  is  pretty  women. 

I  never  knew  much  about  the  Boss's  oldest  daughter, 
except  what  I  seen  of  her.  Her  name's  Marian  —  Mrs. 
Elmore.  I  guess  her  husband  don't  satisfy  the  Boss 
very  much,  for  the  Boss  wears  baggy  trousers  week-days 
and  makes  a  lot  of  money,  and  this  other  feller  carries 
a  handkerchief  with  a  colored  border  and  has  money 
and  spends  a  lot. 

Mrs.  Elmore  and  her  husband,  with  his  high  chin  and 
a  cold  in  the  head  and  rings  under  his  eyes,  didn't  make 
a  hit  with  us  at  the  factory.  They  never  bowed  to 
none  of  us,  and  they  was  a  lot  more  exclusive  than  the 
Boss's  younger  girl  and  the  Boss.  The  Boss  wouldn't 
think  of  acting  fancy  any  more'n  I'd  think  of  wearing 
corsets!  But  Marian,  when  she  came  back  after  all 
them  years  she'd  been  married,  got  the  name  of  it. 
It  used  to  bother  her  to  see  the  old  man  walk  up  the  hill 
from  the  factory  and  pick  up  a  kid  that  was  playing  in 
front  of  one  of  those  shacks  down  here,  and  maybe 
get  molasses  on  his  collar  from  the  kid's  fingers. 

I  heard  her  once.     "It  ain't  dignified,"  says  she. 

The  old  man  laughed  and  says,  "Why,  what's  dig 
nity  ?  "  And  I,  who  was  walking  along  behind  'em, 


JIM  HANDS  169 

am  old  enough  to  know  that  when  people  get  to  talk 
ing  about  dignity,  they're  more  sure  to  go  wrong  than 
them  who  never  think  of  it. 

And  this  girl,  —  well,  she  really  weren't  a  girl,  for 
there  was  some  gray  in  her  black  hair  that  was  always 
done  up  so  neat  and  city-looking,  and  I  guess  a  wrinkle 
or  two  had  come  by  the  time  she  was  thirty,  in  spite  of 
this  massage  I  see  advertised  in  the  Sunday  papers,  - 
well,  this  girl  had  the  wrong  manners  all  right.  Some 
how  her  dresses  fitted  her  too  tight,  though  she  had  a 
good  figure;  and  she'd  get  out  of  her  husband's  big 
automobile  down  there  in  the  town  and  go  into  a  store 
and  give  directions  just  as  if  she'd  hired  the  store 
keeper  —  say,  a  feller  like  John  Bethime  —  to  be  on 
hand  there  to  wait  on  her,  which  weren't  so. 

I  used  to  be  amused  by  her,  and  that  was  before  that 
evening  when  the  worst  thing  happened  that  could 
make  Katherine  more  miserable  than  ever,  and  as  it 
turned  out  turn  everything  around  again. 

I've  just  mentioned  Carrie  Pierson.  She  had  it  in 
for  Mrs.  Elmore,  and  it  was  surprising  how  well  she 
could  imitate  her. 

Carrie  was  a  blonde,  and  had  been  married  two  years 
or  so.  She  was  just  a  factory  girl,  and  the  Boss's 
oldest  daughter  was  a  society  woman,  they  said. 
Carrie  ain't  got  much  education,  but  Mrs.  Elmore 
speaks  French  to  the  hired  girl  that  travels  around  with 
her  to  crinkle  her  hair  every  morning.  Mrs.  Elmore 


170  JIM  HANDS 

didn't  know  any  more  about  Carrie  than  I  know  about 
my  great-grandfather,  but  to  hear  Carrie  talk,  you'd 
think  she  knew  all  about  Mrs.  Elmore. 

The  girl  had  a  sharp  tongue.  She  was  the  best- 
looking  girl  in  the  factory  once,  and  she  could  keep  the 
boys  guessing  what  she'd  say  next,  and  she  was  full  of 
the  devil,  though  there  was  nothing  bad  in  her,  and 
you  could  hear  her  singing  when  she'd  be  coming  down 
to  the  shop  of  an  early  morning.  A  happy  girl  with  fine 
blue  eyes  —  and  no  one  knew  what  she  married  Dave  for. 

But  she  did,  and  you'd  not  have  known  her  for  the 
same.  She  was  still  pretty,  but  the  change  was  in  her 
mind.  Her  mother  —  the  widder  who  used  to  be  a 
forewoman  down  in  Coleman's  factory  —  died  about 
that  time,  but  it  weren't  that.  It  was  just  because 
all  days  were  alike  to  Carrie  after  she'd  been  married. 
Up  at  six  to  get  breakfast  and  wash  up  the  dishes  and 
follow  along  with  Dave  down  to  the  factory,  with  him 
saying  nothing  to  her,  being  a  man  who  don't  think 
there's  any  use  to  talk  to  a  woman  when  you're  married 
to  her;  and  then  the  day  at  the  factory,  and  go  home 
at  night  to  get  supper,  and  sit  and  read  a  ten-cent  book 
in  the  evening,  with  Dave  playing  pool  down  ter  Charlie's 
place,  and  go  to  bed  and  get  up  in  the  morning  to 
get  breakfast  and  wash  the  dishes  and  follow  Dave. 
What's  the  use  ?  It  went  round  and  round,  like  a  belt 
on  a  shafting,  which  tickles  some  women  ter  death  — 
and  kills  others. 


JIM  HANDS  171 

Dave's  wife  weren't  no  fool.  She  got  sour,  and 
knocked  all  them  that  had  what  she  hadn't.  She  got 
to  wishing  she  had  money.  She'd  come  over  some 
times  to  see  my  Annie  and  tell  what  she'd  hoped  ter 
have  once  —  what  she'd  planned.  And  then  she'd 
laugh  without  any  fun  in  it,  and  tell  how  she'd  got  to 
sew  a  yard  of  velvet  around  her  summer  hat  now  it 
was  coming  on  cold  weather.  But  she  weren't  no  fool. 
She  was  just  tired  and  sour  with  days  that  was  all  alike. 
There  was  something  else  the  matter  with  her,  —  the 
real  thing, — as  you'll  see  later  when  I  tell  yer.  Women 
is  funny,  anyhow,  as  you  know,  being  a  man. 

Then  Mrs.  Elmore  came  to  town,  with  her  tight 
dresses  and  her  hair  so  slick  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  whittled  out  of  graphite,  and  her  automobile,  and 
her  fuzzy  dog  with  its  homely  face,  and  her  hus 
band  with  his. 

Great  guns,  as  the  Boss  says,  didn't  it  make  Carrie 
mad !  She  picked  up  all  her  sourness  and  collected  it 
into  a  bunch  and  added  a  little  more  to  it  and  plastered 
the  Boss's  daughter  with  it  whenever  she  got  a  chance 
—  sometimes  before  the  other  factory  girls,  as  she  was 
working  pasting  upper  leather  in  the  stitching-rooms ; 
and  sometimes  she'd  come  over  to  see  my  wife  Annie 
in  the  evening  to  get  rid  of  it.  I  don't  know  as  Annie 
ever  put  the  brakes  on  it.  Part  of  what  she  said  you 
could  say  weren't  so,  and  the  other  part  looked  as  if  it 
might  be  so  on  a  pinch.  Carrie  weren't  no  fool,  and 


172  JIM  HANDS 

we  listened.  I  can  hear  Katherine  now,  the  way  she'd 
laugh  at  Carrie's  imitations. 

She'd  come  up  that  little  gravel  walk  there  the  other 
side  of  where  you're  standing,  swishing  her  calico 
skirts  around,  with  her  nose  up  in  the  air;  and  holding 
her  hands  kind  of  fancy.  It  was  good  on  Mrs.  Elmore, 
all  right. 

"Women  gets  the  worst  of  it  in  this  world,"  says 
Carrie  —  I  remember  just  how  she'd  talk.  "Here 
I've  been  getting  good  money  by  piece-work  for  seven 
years.  And  she  ain't  never  done  no  work.  Men  gets 
what  is  coming  to  'em,  mostly,  but  women  is  born  to  it 
or  married  to  it.  Women  is  all  luck  —  there  ain't 
any  way  out." 

"And,"  she  says,  "her  stuck-up  ways  make  me  so 
tired  I  can  hardly  walk  ter  the  factory  and  back. 
What's  she  ever  done  to  stick  her  powdered  chin  into 
the  air?  Who's  she  that  she  can  come  down  with  the 
Boss  to  see  the  factory  and  talk  with  the  girls,  and  then 
forget  to  see  'em  in  the  post-office  ?  She  ain't  an  actress 
or  a  book  writer  or  nothing  like  that.  She  never  earned 
nothing.  She's  about  as  deserving  as  that  dog  of  yours, 
Mr.  Hands,"  she  says,  "who  gets  fed  twice  a  day  free, 
and  then  bites  the  heads  off  my  two  best  chickens," 
she  says.  "Working  in  a  factory's  awful.  There  ain't 
any  variety.  What's  she  know  about  that?  Just  a 
cold-natured  woman  inside  of  fancy  clothes,  driving 
around  cities  in  carriages  and  going  to  theatres  —  the 


JIM  HANDS  173 

silly  thing!  Where'd  she  get  her  rights?  Who  says 
there's  any  fairness  in  the  world  for  girls  and  women?" 

"Not  me,"  I  says.  "God  Almighty  may  be  kind, 
but  it  seems  like  He  does  a  poor  job  taking  care  of 
women,"  I  says. 

"Wouldn't  it  drive  you  crazy,"  she  says,  "to  be  wish 
ing  you  was  her,  and  then  the  next  minute  be  seeing 
what  a  stuck-up  thing  she  is?  She's  comfortable,  and 
that's  all  she  cares.  What  difference  do  the  girls  in  the 
factory  make  to  her?"  she  says.  "Does  she  know  that 
Jennie  Hemphill  has  got  consumption  so  her  neck's 
so  thin  you  can  put  your  finger  around  it  —  and  that 
the  Boss  is  going  to  pay  her  way  to  an  asylum  or  some 
thing  ?  Not  on  your  life !  No,  she's  off  trying  to  buy 
mahogany  furniture  from  the  farmers'  wives  for  less 
than  it's  worth.  Didn't  May  Coffin  tell  me  ?  Does  she 
know  that  May  had  to  leave  her  mother  because  she 
drank  ?  I  guess  not !  What  does  she  care  about  people, 
anyhow  ?  She  has  what  she  wants  —  and  she  never 
earned  it,  either.  And  who  did  May  Coffin  go  to  see 
when  she  got  in  trouble  by  running  off  with  the  clerk 
of  the  hotel?  The  Boss's  youngest  daughter.  How 
about  her  going  to  see  the  oldest  daughter  —  this  Marian 
Elmore?  That's  funny  now,  ain't  it?  That  would 
make  you  laugh,  wouldn't  it?" 

That's  the  way  she'd  talk,  and  I'd  be  sitting  smoking 
my  pipe  on  the  steps  —  for  it  was  summer  then,  and 
the  kids  would  be  off  to  bed. 


174  JIM  HANDS 

Annie'd  say,  "Probably  she  is  better  than  you  think." 

'Twas  said  for  the  sake  of  kindness,  which  is  like  her, 
and  gets  more  so  as  she  grows  older,  and  you  could  tell 
it  weren't  said  for  truth. 

"She  smokes  cigarettes,"  says  Carrie  Pierson,  acting 
kind  of  tired  and  leaning  up  against  that  tree  there, 
and  dropping  her  hands.  "But,"  she  says,  "if  / 
smoked  cigarettes,  she'd  be  the  first  to  call  me  a  bad 
woman  —  a  factory  hand." 

"The  rest  of  the  Boss's  family  is  all  right,"  says  Annie. 

"Maybe  —  I  guess  they  is,"  Carrie  says.  "But  0 
dear,  there's  few  of  them !  Sometimes  I  think  'tis  only 
them  that's  good  who  is  fools  and  unhappy." 

"So  does  everybody  —  sometimes,"  says  I. 

Then  off  she'd  go  home  to  read  more  paper  books 
under  a  kerosene  lamp  in  the  kitchen  and  wait  for  Dave 
ter  come  back  from  down  on  Main  Street  and  say  noth 
ing  to  her  and  go  ter  bed.  And  I  never  liked  Dave  so 
well  as  I  like  my  gate-post,  anyhow. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

I  HAVE  cause  to  remember  the  night  Carrie  broke 
loose.  It  had  been  one  of  them  still  spring  days,  and 
there  was  no  staying  in  the  house  in  the  evening,  it 
was  that  close,  and  I  could  hear  little  Mike  threshing 
back  and  forth  on  his  bed  upstairs  long  after  his  mother 
had  leaned  over  him  with  a  blessing  for  him  and  had  gone 
to  bathe  her  face  and  hands  in  a  dipper  of  well-water. 

All  of  a  sudden  I  hears  somebody  coming  down  over 
the  hill.  Our  hedge  by  the  fence  is  all  thick  with  leaves, 
and  though  there  was  plenty  of  noise  from  the  crickets 
in  the  grass,  I  could  hear  whoever  it  was  breathing  fast 
behind  it,  and  it  sounded  like  trouble  of  some  kind  to 
me. 

It  was  Carrie,  and  when  she  finally  made  up  her  mind 
to  come  in,  and  got  to  where  the  light  from  the  moon 
shined  on  her  face,  I  knew  I  was  right.  She'd  been 
crying,  and  she  was  biting  her  lips,  and  she  had  a  little 
bag  with  her,  and  she  was  shaking  like  a  horse  that 
feels  the  jockey  trying  the  saddle. 

I  knew  it  weren't  me  she  wanted  to  see,  and  by  the 
looks  of  things  I  didn't  want  to  mix  in  very  thick  with 
the  fuss,  whatever  it  was.  So  I  calls  to  Annie,  and  she 

175 


176  JIM  HANDS 

comes  out  the  screen  door,  and  held  it  open  with  one 
hand,  letting  in  the  mosquitoes,  and  looked  kind  of 
scared  the  minute  she  set  eyes  on  Carrie. 

"God  save  us!  What's  the  matter?  What's  hap 
pened?"  says  she. 

Carrie  pulls  in  her  breath  and  says,  choking,  "I'm 
going  away,  Annie  dear.  You  mustn't  tell  anybody. 
Nobody  knows  it  but  you.  I  couldn't  bear  not  to  say 
good-by." 

"When  will  you  be  back?"  says  Annie. 

"I  won't  come  back,"  says  the  girl.  "I  can't  stand 
it  any  more.  It's  all  the  same.  And  oh,  I  could  stand 
it  if  he  was  different !  But  it's  just  the  same  thing 
over  and  over  again.  I  ain't  married  like  I  thought  it 
would  be.  He  don't  never  show  me  no  affection.  He 
don't  love  me.  I'm  just  a  hired  girl.  And  you  mustn't 
tell  Dave,  Mr.  Hands,"  says  she  to  me,  "for  I  hardly 
know  what  I'm  saying,  and  I'm  going  away." 

"You're  going  right  back  home,"  says  Annie. 
But  Carrie  shook  her  head.  "I'm  going  on  the  nine- 
fifteen  down  train,"  says  she.  "There  ain't  anything 
can  make  me  stay."  And  she  set  down  on  the  bench 
and  pushed  her  face -down  on  to  the  back  of  it,  and, 
though  I'd  heard  somebody  whistling,  it  weren't  till 
then,  when  all  was  still,  that  I  looks  up  and  sees  Mrs. 
Elmore  —  the  Boss's  oldest  daughter,  standing  there 
in  the  gateway. 

"Has  my  dog  been  here,  people?"  she  says,  and  her 


JIM  HANDS  177 

voice  was  soft  and  pretty,  and  kind  of  sad.  "For  he's 
run  away,  and  Mr.  Elmore  went  up  into  the  fields  look 
ing  for  him,  and  I've  come  down  this  way  into  the  village 
to  look.  He's  been  gone  since  dinner." 

It  took  us  by  surprise,  and  I  guess  Carrie  Pierson 
didn't  hear  her  at  all,  for,  just  after  I'd  said  I  hadn't 
seen  nothing  of  the  dog,  she  caught  her  breath  and 
began  to  gulp  the  way  a  woman  does  when  something 
real  is  the  matter.  Mrs.  Elmore  —  the  broker's  wife  - 
she  seen  it. 

And  you  can  knock  me  down  if  she  didn't  come  in, 
and  before  we  knew  it  she  touched  the  girl  on  the  shoul 
der.  "What's  the  matter?"  she  says,  turning  to  my 
wife.  "Is  this  young  woman  in  trouble?"  she  says. 

Annie  didn't  answer,  but  the  girl  herself  looked  up, 
kinder  surprised,  like  somebody  that's  been  waked  up 
to  get  off  at  the  next  station.  And  when  she  seen  who 
it  was,  her  jaw  kinder  set. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  she  says.  "Do  I  cut  any 
figure  with  you ?"  she  says.  "You  talked  to  me  one 
day  and  forgot  to  see  me  on  Main  Street  the  next. 
How  do  my  troubles  hurt  you?"  And  she  stood  up 
and  looked  the  other  woman  straight  in  the  eye.  "Is 
there  any  difference  between  you  and  me  except  you've 
got  money  and  I  ain't?" 

"Don't  talk  foolish,"  says  my  Annie. 

But  it  was  just  the  wrong  word.  It  seemed  to  be  like 
throwing  kerosene  on  hot  coals.  You  know  how  it 


178  JIM  HANDS 

comes  up  like  a  white  vapor  and  then  goes  off  with  a 
bang. 

Well,  Carrie  threw  her  hands  back,  and  she  says, 
beginning  kind  of  whispering  and  slow,  "You  are  that 
kind  of  woman  that  don't  know  what  people  are," 
she  says.  "How  are  you  to  know,  with  the  life  you 
lead?  Well,  I'll  tell  yer!"  She  reached  out  and 
grabbed  one  of  the  other  woman's  hands.  "Do  you 
feel  that  hand  of  mine?  It's  rough,  and  yours  is  soft," 
she  says.  "It's  rough  because  I  wash  dishes  twice  a 
day  and  peel  potatoes  and  work  over  the  glue-pots," 
she  says,  "and  yours  is  smooth  because  you  don't. 
And  you  and  I,"  she  says,  "are  near  of  an  age,  and 
you've  got  wrinkles  worrying  because  you  don't  know 
what  pleasure  to  have  next,  and  I  got  mine  wondering 
where  I'd  ever  get  any.  You  don't  know,"  she  says, 
still  talking  kind  of  slow,  "what  it  is  to  have  every 
day  like  the  next  and  the  other  one  before  it,  up  here 
in  this  muddy  factory  town.  And  so  you  don't  under 
stand.  You're  too  much  society,"  she  says,  "to  have 
it  make  any  difference  to  you  that  I  can't  stand  it  any 
more,  that  I've  got  to  go  away  or  die,"  says  she,  "and 
I'm  going  on  the  down  train  to-night,  and  it  was  seeing 
you  in  your  automobile,"  she  busts  out  loud,  "with 
the  life  you  lead,  that  waked  me  up  to  it.  You  who 
don't  care  —  I'm  much  obliged  to  yer!" 

And  she  stood  there  with  her  jaw  set,  reaching  be 
hind  her  for  her  little  bag  on  the  bench,  and  breathing 


JIM  HANDS  179 

like  she'd  been  running  four  miles.     And  the  other 
woman  —  this  Mrs.  Elmore  —  she  was  breathing,  too. 

After  a  second,  though,  she  looked  up  and  took  a  step 
forward  and  caught  at  Carrie's  sleeve  and  says,  whisper 
ing,  "For  God's  sake,  forgive  me,  woman,"  says  she. 
"I'm  not  different  from  any  other,  as  you  think,"  she 
says,  soft.  "I'd  not  make  you  unhappy  for  all  the 
world!"  And  right  there,  in  spite  of  the  powder  and 
slick  hair  and  tight-fitting  dress  and  the  smell  of  per 
fume  in  the  air,  as  she  stood  in  the  moonlight,  any  fool 
could  see  we'd  made  a  mistake  about  her  when  you'd 
really  got  to  the  bottom  of  her.  And  Carrie  looks  up 
into  her  eyes  a  second,  and  then  she  sat  down  on  the 
bench,  sitting  up  very  straight  and  still,  looking  like 
she'd  seen  something  queer,  and  reaching  out  for  the 
other  woman's  hand. 

"And  you'll  not  go  away?"  says  Mrs.  Elmore,  begging. 

"Yes,"  says  Carrie.  "I'm  going,"  and  she  puts  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  the  Boss's  daughter  sits  down 
beside  her  and  says,  easy  but  anxious,  "Tell  me  why." 

"I've  told  yer,"  says  Carrie.  "These  people  know. 
It's  awful.  I  used  to  dream  about  what  it  would  be. 
But  it's  awful.  And  he  never  takes  my  hand  in  his, 
and  he  never  tells  me  anything,  and  he  don't  say  he 
loves  me  till  I  ask  him.  I'm  nothing  to  him,  and  I'm 
going  away.  I  could  stand  it  if  -  And  there  she 

stops.     I  can  remember  it  well. 

And  the  Boss's  daughter  says,  after  a  minute,  "Do 


180  JIM  HANDS 

you  think  that  you  are  the  only  woman  that's  hungry 
for  love?"  she  says. 

But  Carrie  jumped  up  as  if  she'd  not  heard.  "I'm 
going  away,"  she  says.  "None  of  you  can  stop  me. 
It's  too  late,"  she  says,  with  a  voice  as  hard  as  a  frog's 
croak.  "I've  left  a  note  for  him,  and  my  wedding- 
ring.  They're  under  the  lamp  in  the  kitchen."  And 
with  that  she  started  away  from  us. 

"Wait,"  says  the  Elmore  woman,  and  her  voice  was 
so  clear  and  true  that  Carrie  stopped. 

"Have  you  thought  of  the  other  women  yet?"  asks 
the  Boss's  daughter,  facing  her. 

"What  other  women?"  says  Carrie. 

"Oh,"  says  Mrs.  Elmore,  kinder  careless,  "the  other 
married  women  that  want  to  be  loved  —  those  that  is 
brave  enough  to  bear  it  all  —  the  neglect  and  all  of  it. 
And  have  you  thought  of  them  others  that  is  tempted 
to  run  away  —  them  poor,  desperate  women  —  per 
haps  factory  people  and  perhaps  women  who  ride  in 
motor-cars  —  that  are  tempted^ — always  tempted  —  to 
give  it  up  ?  What  will  they  say  when  you  have  gone  ?  " 

"What  are  they  to  me?"  says  Carrie,  staring  hard 
in  the  moonlight. 

"Good  God!"  says  the  Boss's  daughter,  "they 
should  be  much  to  both  of  us,  shouldn't  they?" 

And  at  that  Carrie's  bag  slid  out  of  her  fingers  on  to 
that  gravel  walk  there,  and  she  kept  on  staring  without 
trying  to  pick  it  up. 


JIM  HANDS  181 

"I'm  only  —  what  did  you  say?  —  a  pleasure-lover, 
a  society  woman,  "says  the  Boss's  daughter,  with  a  ketch 
in  her  throat,  which  was  bare  and  white  against  the 
lilac  bush,  "and  I  think  of  those  women  very  often." 

It  was  then  that  Carrie  caught  hold  of  the  tree,  and 
you  could  see  her  shoulders  moving,  and  you  knew  she'd 
not  go  away.  You  knew  that  Mrs.  Elmore,  who  come 
into  it  by  chance,  had  won.  And  there  weren't  a  sound 
but  the  noise  of  the  crickets  and  the  little  tinkle  of  the 
beads  that  hung  down  from  her  neck  when  she'd  breathe. 

And  then,  after  a  minute,  Carrie  came  back  and  sat 
down,  and  looked  up  at  the  other  woman  and  smiled. 
And  Annie  smiled,  too,  and  I  knocked  the  ashes  out 
of  my  pipe  to  make  a  noise  of  some  kind.  And  my  feet 
seemed  to  ache  from  standing. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  be  going  home,"  says  Carrie  by 
and  by. 

"  Of  course  you  had,"  Annie  says. 

Mrs.  Elmore  started  up  as  if  she'd  been  in  a  dream. 
"Not  alone?"  she  says.  "Wouldn't  it  be  best  if  we 
all  walked  with  her  by  those  cottages?"  she  says.  "  If 
people  see  her  alone  with  the  hat  and  bag  -  "  she  says. 

"They'd  talk  till  Christmas,"  says  my  Annie,  "in 
this  town,"  she  says. 

And  somehow  the  women-folks  fixed  it  so's  they  go 
off  across  that  field  that's  so  white  this  morning  that  you 
can't  hardly  look  at  it,  to  that  last  house  on  Maple 
Street, — that  red  one-story  cottage  you  can  just  see,  - 


182  JIM  HANDS 

and  I  was  to  go  up  by  the  road  to  stop  Dave  if  he  was 
on  his  way  home,  and  keep  him  talking  awhile  and 
meet  'em  up  at  his  house. 

And  when  I  went  out  the  gate,  there  was  a  man  stand 
ing  in  the  shadow  behind  the  hedge ! 

It  was  just  luck  I  seen  him.  He  didn't  move  none, 
and  I  guess  he  thought  I  hadn't  spotted  him.  A  quick 
suspicion  comes  to  me,  and  I  reaches  quick  around 
to  my  hip  pocket  and  says,  "  Helloa,"  kinder  soft. 

"Quiet!"  he  says,  coming  up  to  me.  And  it  was 
Carter  Elmore ! 

He  was  kinder  white  and  excited.  "  I  was  looking 
for  my  wife,"  he  says.  "We  was  out  trying  to  find  her 
dog,"  he  says,  chopping  his  words.  "  I  heard  voices  — 
I  stopped  —  I  heard  it  all,"  he  says,  "and  was  trying 
to  get  away  when  you  come  out.  You're  one  of  the 
men  at  the  factory?  Don't,  for  God's  sake,  let  her 
know  I  was  standing  here,"  he  says.  "  I  heard  her  say, 
'the  other  married  women  that  wants  to  be  loved.' 
Don't  tell  her  I  heard  it.  Do  you  see  ?  I  don't  want 
her  to  know,"  he  says.  And  then  he  puts  his  thin 
hand  on  my  shoulder  and  brings  his  white  face  up  near 
me  like  this,  and  says,  like  a  panhandler  asking  for  a 
handout,  "Don't  let  her  know  I  heard  it,  will  you?" 

"  No,"  says  I,  and  we  left  each  other,  and  I  went  on 
up  to  Maple  Street. 

But  I  didn't  run  into  Dave.  I  heard  the  train  go  out 
of  the  station  as  I  got  to  the  corner  of  the  road.  It 


JIM  HANDS  183 

makes  a  fierce  noise  on  a  still  night  getting  up  the  grade 
to  the  bridge. 

Then  I  went  along  Maple  Street,  and  the  women  was 
just  coming  out  on  to  the  walk  through  a  break  in  the 
stone  wall.  I  shook  my  head  to  show  I  hadn't  seen 
Dave,  and  we  went  on  to  the  house. 

The  door  into  the  kitchen  was  open,  and  the  kerosene 
lamp  was  burning  on  the  table,  and  from  outside  you 
could  see  the  wedding-ring  shining  bright  and  promi 
nent  on  the  bare  wood.  And  there  on  his  knees 
beside  the  table  was  that  son  of  a  gun  with  the  sheet  of 
white  paper  crunched  up  in  his  hand ;  and,  by  thunder, 
he  was  crying  like  a  baby !  He  was  crying,  with  his 
derby  hat  pressed  up  against  his  face. 

But  it  pleased  the  girl.  She  seen  that  Dave  loved  her, 
after  all.  And  I  guess  he  did.  And  when  we'd  said 
good  night  to  the  Boss's  daughter  a  little  later,  and  she'd 
started  up  over  Maple  Hill,  something  made  me  look 
back  at  her.  And  right  up  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  on  the  ridge,  so  any  one  could  have  seen  it  in  the 
moonlight  for  twenty  miles  around,  stood  Elmore,  - 
the  little  broker,  —  waiting  for  her. 

So  when  Annie  and  I  walked  home,  she  put  her  hand 
on  my  arm  the  way  she  hadn't  done  for  a  long  time. 
"  Jim,"  she  says,  "  we've  been  pretty  happy  —  you  and 
I,"  she  says.  "  I  think  I  got  a  good  husband,"  she  says, 
with  a  little  laugh,  "  though  not  above  the  average  in 
appearance  —  speaking  with  great  charity,"  she  says. 


184  JIM  HANDS 

And  somehow  I  was  happy  and  satisfied  myself  when 
I  got  in  between  the  clean  sheets  that  night,  even 
though  I  could  hear  Katherine  in  the  next  room 
tossing  around  and  very  restless. 

It  was  the  next  morning  at  breakfast,  when  the  sun 
was  coming  in  the  window  and  the  ceiling  was  all  spotted 
with  lights  from  the  coffee  dancing  in  my  cup,  that 
Anne  Villet  came  in,  and  we  seen  some  change  had  come 
to  her. 

She  looked  as  if  she  hadn't  slept,  and  there  was  a  wild 
look  in  her  eyes,  and  her  clothes  was  put  on  the  way  she 
used  to  put  'em  on  before  she  came  to  live  with  us  and 
Katherine  had  been  a  friend  to  her.  There  was  a  dog 
look  in  her  face,  and  the  skin  around  her  eyes  was  all 
dark  and  pulled,  as  if  she  had  been  up  and  walking  the 
whole  night. 

She  had  her  jaw  shut  hard,  and  never  said  a  word 
until  she  had  swallowed  her  oatmeal  in  gulps  and  she 
seen  Katherine  was  looking  at  her. 

"I'm  going  away,"  she  says,  all  of  a  sudden,  and 
dropped  her  spoon  on  the  floor.  "  You've  been  pretty 
good  to  me,"  she  says,  looking  at  us,  "but  I  have  work 
to  do,"  she  says,  with  an  ugly  voice.  "  I'll  get  what's 
due  me,  or  I'll  kill  somebody,"  she  says.  "I  won't 
wait.  It  will  be  to-day;"  and  her  voice  was  hard  and 
cracked  and  like  it  was  when  she  first  came  to  the 
factory.  It  scared  little  Michael.  His  eyes  was  as 
round  as  the  bottoms  of  two  butter  dishes. 


JIM  HANDS  185 

"Anne!"  says  Katherine,  with  her  voice  shaking, 
and  the  girl  looked  up  at  her.  "  Why,  Anne ! "  she  says 
again,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

But  there  was  no  control  to  be  had  of  her.  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  tell?"  she  says  in  answer.  "Let  this  be 
enough  for  you  all.  Ask  me  no  more  questions.  Some 
women  have  a  memory  of  some  man  they  can't  forget," 
she  says  with  a  growling  in  the  back  of  her  throat. 
"Them  who  has  lost  everything  by  him  is  ready  to 
render  him  a  statement,  as  the  grocer  says.  Well, 
listen,"  says  she.  "Last  night,"  she  says,  "after  all 
this  time  —  months  and  years,  I  seen  him !  I  looked 
out  my  window  and  I  seen  him,  standing  in  the  road 
beyond  the  gate !"  she  says. 

"Who?  "says  I. 

The  rat  look  was  in  her  eyes  and  she  stood  up. 

"  In  front  of  the  gate  ?"  says  Katherine,  and  she  was 
as  white  as  a  starched  collar. 

But  Anne  Villet  only  stiffened  her  body.  "  I've  said 
too  much  to  you,"  she  says.  "  It  was  him  who  squeezed 
the  best  out  of  me,  as  you'd  wring  a  cloth,"  she  says. 
"And  it's  him  I'll  have  it  over  with  and  not  you,"  she 
says,  with  a  snap  of  her  teeth  like  a  wild  animal,  and 
she  ran  upstairs  and  I  heard  her  door  slam. 

"Annie,"  I  says  to  my  wife,  "I've  got  to  go.  But 
this  ain't  a  laughing  matter,"  I  says.  "There's  a 
volcano  under  this  roof,"  I  says.  "You  must  find  out 
who  the  feller  is,"  says  I,  and  I  remember  how,  when  I 


186  JIM  HANDS 

left  the  room,  I  seen  Katherine  still  sitting  over  her  plate 
that  she  hadn't  touched,  with  her  red  lips  half  open 
and  staring  out  at  nothing. 

But  her  mother  didn't  find  out  anything.  She  met 
me  when  I  came  home  that  night  outside  the  house. 
"  Jim,"  she  says,  " there  was  no  talking  to  Anne  Villet," 
she  says.  "She  was  in  her  room  all  day  and  the  door 
locked.  Just  now,  when  I  was  in  the  kitchen  and  it  was 
getting  dark,  she  went  out,"  she  says. 

"Where  is  Katherine?"  I  says,  and  I  seen  the 
worried  look  in  her  face. 

"I  can't  understand,"  she  says.  " Katherine  has 
tried  a  dozen  times  to  get  Anne  to  unlock  her  door,"  she 
says.  "  Katherine  acts  so  funny !  "  says  she,  plucking  at 
her  apron.  "She's  gone  to  the  barn  just  now." 

I  never  answered  her,  but  I  walked  around  the  house. 
I  could  feel  the  evil  in  the  air,  and  there  weren't  anything 
cheerful  in  the  rustling  of  that  corn  that  was  turning 
yellow  beyond  the  chicken  houses. 

It  was  true.  Katherine  was  there.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  feed  box  inside  the  door  and  bent  over  with  her 
head  in  her  hands. 

"Girl!  "I  says. 

"Oh,"  she  says,  "I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  she  says, 
with  the  words  coming  hard. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  I  says,  harsh  and  stern. 

She  kinder  shivered  from  the  cold,  and  came  over  and 
buried  her  face  in  my  coat,  and  I  could  feel  her  hair 


JIM  HANDS  187 

against  my  cheek  and  her  lungs  filling  when  she  tried 
to  catch  a  breath. 

"Tell me!"  I  says. 

"Last  night,"  she  says,  never  moving  her  head, 
"last  night  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  in  all  these 
months.  He  must  have  come  back  to  town.  He 
came  and  stood  in  front  of  the  house.  I  was  in  the 
parlor.  I  was  in  the  shadow  behind  the  curtain.  I 
watched  him.  He  had  been  going  by,  probably,  and 
stopped.  It  was  Bob  Harvey.  And  Anne  Villet  - 
she  says,  and  stopped  and  dropped  her  head.  "It  was 
him  she  meant !  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

I  MUST  have  stepped  back,  for  I  remember  when  I 
realized  I  was  a  couple  of  paces  away  from  her.  "Then, 
thank  God,"  I  says.  "The  miserable  cuss!  We've 
been  saved  from  him !  "  I  says,  and  went  to  her  and  put 
my  arms  around  the  girl,  and  she  never  seemed  so  much 
to  me  before. 

"But  it  isn't  true,"  she  says,  starting  away  from  me 
again.  "  I  know !  "  she  says.  "He  would  never  harm 
anybody  —  he  would  never  harm  a  woman,"  she  says, 
"and  if  he  did,  he  was  young,  and  it  was  long  ago," 
she  says.  "But  it  isn't  true  ! " 

I  caught  her  arm  then  and  went  with  her  to  the  back 
door. 

"Don't  tell  anybody,"  she  says.  "It  isn't  true. 
Why,  God  wouldn't  let  it  be  true !  " 

"Wait,"  I  says,  and  my  hand  was  shaking  around  the 
cold  door-knob.  "Wait  till  we  know.  Wait  till  Anne 
Villet  comes  back.  Trust  me,"  I  says. 

But  Anne  Villet  didn't  come  back.  That  midnight 
came,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  her.  I  remember  of 
waking  a  dozen  times  and  turning  over  in  bed  and 
listening  to  the  trees  rocking  with  a  big  wind  and  wait 
ing  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  front  door. 

188 


JIM  HANDS  189 

That  next  day  was  one  of  the  brightest  I  ever  seen, 
with  the  sun  lighting  up  the  hills,  and  the  air  as  clear  as 
new  eye-glasses.  When  I  got  on  my  clothes,  the  first 
thing  I  did  was  to  walk  to  the  stranger  girl's  room. 
It  come  to  me  all  of  a  sudden  that  though  day  after 
day  had  gone  by  with  her  in  the  house  sick  and  coughing, 
she  was  a  stranger.  There  wasn't  one  of  us  —  not  even 
Katherine  —  who  knew  anything  about  her,  after  all. 

Her  room  was  empty;  she  hadn't  slept  there.  Some 
of  her  clothes  was  scattered  over  the  bed,  and  on  the  floor 
was  an  old  blue  necktie  that  used  to  belong  to  old  Joe 
Paul,  and  near  the  door  on  a  corner  of  the  matting  there 
was  a  little  photograph  lying  face  up  and  looking  as  if 
somebody  had  dropped  it  in  a  hurry  on  the  way  out. 
I  leaned  over  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  old,  and  taken  by 
some  photograph  parlor  in  Chicago.  It  weren't  Robert 
Harvey,  and  yet  it  looked  a  lot  like  somebody  I'd  seen 
before.  I  remember  how  I  shut  my  eyes  and  tried  to 
place  the  face  in  the  picture,  and  how  I  gave  it  up  and 
noticed  the  empty  chair  drawn  up  to  the  window  where 
she'd  sat  and  watched  the  feller  who  had  come  and  stood 
before  our  gate.  "Little  the  scoundrel  thought  he  was 
within  thirty  feet  of  his  past,"  I  says  to  myself. 

Then  I  looked  in  the  closet.  Her  little  satchel  was 
gone,  and  I  was  sure  then  we  wouldn't  ever  see  Anne 
Villet  again.  I  told  my  Annie  and  Katherine  when  I'd 
come  in  from  feeding  the  horse.  None  of  us  said  much. 
There  wasn't  much  to  say.  But  I  seen  that  Katherine 


190  JIM  HANDS 

had  learned  a  lot  that  night.  I  seen  there  was  a  differ 
ent  look  about  her  mouth.  The  softness  had  gone  from 
it.  When  she  came  into  the  hall  to  see  me  off  to  the 
factory,  she  didn't  say  but  one  thing,  and  somehow  it 
didn't  sound  like  anything  but  a  talking-machine. 
"It  isn't  true,"  she  says,  and  the  words  kept  repeating 
themselves  to  me  like  a  tune  you  get  in  your  head  and 
hum  over  without  knowing  what  you're  doing. 

I  was  going  down  the  hill  and  kicking  up  the  dust  in 
clouds ;  it  was  that  day  when  I  heard  somebody  holler 
from  behind,  and  I  looked  back  and  seen  it  was  Joe  Bent. 
He  was  almost  running,  and  I  could  tell  by  the  grin  on  his 
nosey  face  that  he  had  some  news. 

"I  suppose  you're  sorry  you  took  her  in  now,"  he 
says,  with  a  cigarette  bobbing  up  and  down  in  his  lips. 

"Who?  "I  says. 

"The  invalid,"  he  says,  with  a  mean  twist  of  his 
mouth  and  roll  of  his  eye.  "Anne  Villet,"  he  says. 
"There  ain't  many  who  know  about  it,"  he  says,  "but 
enough  to  make  it  bad,"  he  says.  "My  wife  was  told 
by  Mary  Birch,  the  girl  who  works  at  the  Boss's  house," 
he  says. 

"What  is  it?"  says  I.  "Speak  up,  man,"  says  I. 
"What's  happened?" 

"A  black  bird  has  roosted  on  the  Boss's  front  porch," 
he  says.  "I  thought  you'd  know  about  it.  Perhaps 
I  oughter  say  nothing,"  he  says. 

"Joe,"  I  says,  taking  hold  of  his  elbow  and  turning  him 


JIM  HANDS  191 

up  against  that  fence  this  side  of  the  bridge  where  all 
them  tin  signs  is  tacked,  "I  don't  know  anything," 
I  says,  "  except  the  girl  left  our  house  last  night  before 
supper  and  hasn't  come  home  since.  What  do  you 
know?  Speak  up,"  I  says. 

He  may  have  seen  the  look  on  my  face,  for  he  told 
me  then.  "Why,"  he  says,  "it  was  this  way.  The 
door-bell  at  the  Boss's  house  rang  last  night,  and  Mrs. 
Elmore,  the  boss's  married  daughter,  was  near  the  door, 
and  she  opened  it  before  the  hired  girl  got  there.  And 
there  stood  Anne  Villet,"  he  says.  " '  Who  do  you  want 
to  see  ?  '  she  says,  seeing  the  ugly  look  on  the  girl's  face. 
'I  want  to  see  him,'  says  the  Villet  woman. 

"  '  Who  ? '  "  says  Mrs.  Elmore. 

"  '  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  he  calls  himself  now,'  she 
says;  'but  he  will  remember  me.  These  muscles  and 
bones  has  come  back  to  him,'  she  says.  'We'll  have  a 
pretty  little  scene,'  she  says." 

And  says  Joe,  "Then  Mrs.  Elmore  asks  again  who  the 
girl  meant,  but  never  got  a  chance  to  hear  the  answer, 
for  Bob  Harvey,  the  Boss's  son,  stepped  up  from  behind. 
He  was  red  and  dizzy,  they  say.  But  he  says,  'I'll  talk 
to  her,'  he  says.  'Don't  have  any  noise  about  this, 
for  God's  sake  !'  he  says.  'Go  in  the  house,  sister,'  he 
says  to  Mrs.  Elmore,  and  he  walked  off  down  across  the 
lawn  there  and  stood  a  long  while  talking  to  the  woman 
under  the  trees." 

And  says  Joe,  "There  they  talked,  and  when  Bob 


192  JIM  HANDS 

Harvey  came  back  into  the  house  and  his  sister  asked 
him  questions.  He  was  excited,  but  wouldn't  answer  any 
thing  ;  and  the  Old  Boss  come  out  from  the  dining  room 
where  he'd  been  smoking  his  cigar  the  way  he  does,  and 
he  asked  his  girl,  Mrs.  Elmore,  what  was  happening,  and 
she  told  him,  and  when  the  boy  started  to  go  out  the 
door  again,  the  Old  Boss  grabbed  him  and  asked  him 
who  the  woman  was  that  he  could  see  standing  out  there 
under  those  horse-chestnut  trees,  and  the  boy  said  that 
didn't  mean  anything  dishonorable  to  him,  and  that  was 
all  he  would  tell,  and  bust  away  and  went  out." 

" Great  Scott!"  says  I.  "Where  is  Anne  Villet 
now?  "  I  says. 

"Oh,  she's  gone!"  says  Joe.  "The  station-master 
told  me  she  went  on  the  first  train  this  morning.  Bob 
Harvey  telegraphed  last  night  to  some  feller  to  send 
five  hundred  dollars  by  telegraph,  and  an  answer  came 
with  an  order,  and  the  operator  gave  Harvey  a  statement 
showing  it  was  coming,  and  the  boy  wrote  an  order  on 
the  telegraph  company  and  gave  it  to  Myrick  at  the 
Phenix  Hotel,  and  Myrick  cashed  it  for  him." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "he  gave  her  the  money,  that's 
plain,"  I  says. 

"  Of  course,"  says  Joe,  "that's  plain;  and  if  you  don't 
want  me  to  get  docked  for  being  late  this  morning  at 
the  time-clock,  it's  plain  I've  got  to  hurry." 

So  we  walked  on  to  the  door  together.  I  had  a  mix 
ture  in  my  feelings  right  then.  I  was  glad  my  Katherine 


JIM  HANDS  193 

had  escaped  the  feller,  and  yet  I  remembered  her  voice 
saying,  "It  isn't  true!"  and  I  hated  to  have  to  tell 
her  that  it  was.  I  wondered  what  the  Old  Boss  was 
feeling,  and  as  sure  as  the  world  I  forgot  how  I'd  been 
learning  to  dislike  him  since  he  interfered  with  my 
girl's  happiness,  and  I  kinder  felt  sorry  for  him.  And  I 
looked  in  the  office  as  I  went  toward  them  bare  wooden 
stairs,  and  I  seen  he  weren't  there. 

It  wasn't  till  noon  he  came  down,  and  then  he  sent  for 
me.  I  never  seen  so  much  pain  on  a  human  face.  He 
was  like  a  man  who  has  been  sent  up  for  a  thirty-year 
term.  He  never  raised  his  eyes  at  all. 

"I  suppose  you  know  what  I  want  to  see  you  about," 
he  says,  playing  with  his  ringers  on  the  back  of  his  gold 
watch. 

"Yes,"  I  says. 

"Who  was  that  woman?  "  he  says.  And  I  told  him 
all  I  knew.  "Does  your  daughter  know  anything  of 
this?  "  he  says. 

"Only  what  I  know,"  says  I,  "and  not  so  much,  for  she 
don't  know  anything  about  what  Joe  told  me,"  I  says. 
"She  don't  believe  it  against  your  son,"  I  says.  "It's 
going  to  be  hard  to  tell  her  —  to  tell  her  that  it's  a 
fact." 

He  looked  up  at  me  with  a  quick  shoot  of  his 'eyes. 
"  You  don't  mean  -  "  he  begins. 

"Yes,"  I  says.  "She  hasn't  seen  him,  but  she  still 
loves  him,"  I  says. 


194  JIM  HANDS 

"  You  don't  mean  it !  "  says  he,  and  for  a  long  time 
he  was  thinking.  Then  he  draws  a  long  breath  and  pulls 
down  his  vest  and  sits  down.  ' '  Jim/'  he  says,  "I've  got 
two  daughters  myself.  For  their  sake  I'd  like  to  keep 
this  thing  quiet.  You'll  help  me?"  he  says.  "Well, 
you  better  know  it  all,"  he  says.  "I've  told  my  boy 
that  he  could  tell  me  the  truth  or  not  call  on  me  to  pay 
his  bills.  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  him  except  that 
there  was  nothing  dishonorable  to  him.  Of  course  he 
lied  to  me.  I  told  him  so.  I  told  him  we  were 
through,"  he  says.  "He  only  said  he  was  sorry  I 
hadn't  learned  to  know  him,  being  that  he  was  my  own 
son.  But  finally  he  said  that  he  had  borrowed  five 
hundred  dollars  from  his  room-mate  in  college. 

"The  five  hundred  he  gave  to  the  girl  ?  "  I  says. 

"Yes,"  says  the  Boss,  biting  his  lip.  "The  young 
fools.  His  room-mate  signed  a  post-dated  check,  and 
hasn't  got  the  money  to  make  good.  The  boy  said  that 
would  get  his  room-mate  in  trouble.  He  said  of  course 
it  would  be  known  among  his  friends  in  college,  and  that 
it  meant  he  couldn't  go  back  there.  He  tried  to  weaken 
me  by  telling  me  that !  And  we  had  hot  words,  and  I 
stood  out,"  he  says.  "And,  Jim,"  he  says,  all  hunched 
up  in  the  leather  chair,  "I  guess  my  boy  and  me  is 
through,"  he  says. 

"I'm  sorry,"  says  I;  "and  I'll  try  to  shut  up  the 
talk,"  I  says. 

"A  rascal  and  a  coward,"  says  he,  as  I  was  going  out 


JIM  HANDS  195 

the  door.  He  acted  like  a  man  talking  to  himself .  "A 
rascal  and  liar,"  he  says,  —  "  my  son." 

So  that  was  the  story  I  had  to  tell  my  girl  that  night, 
and  I  can  see  them  big  eyes  of  hers  looking  at  me,  and 
I  remember  how  she  opened  and  shut  her  hands  and 
pressed  'em  together  and  against  her  throat.  She  went 
upstairs  when  I  was  through,  and  she  brought  down  one 
of  them  tickets  with  a  string  in  it  that  they  put  in  your 
buttonhole  at  these  country  fairs,  and  I  seen  that  on 
the  back  of  it  was  his  handwriting,  and  it  said,  "For  a 
good  girl,"  like  it  says  on  the  china  mugs  they  give 
children.  I  just  caught  a  look  at  it.  She  tore  the  paste 
board  into  little  bits  of  pieces  and  dropped  'em  into  the 
waste-basket.  And  after  a  while  she  gave  a  laugh  —  the 
kind  of  laugh  I  don't  like  much. 

I  heard  it  more  than  once  in  those  next  days.  Only 
once  she  spoke  of  Bob  Harvey.  She  had  come  out  to 
the  barn  and  was  patting  the  horse's  nose;  and  all  of  a 
sudden  she  turned  quick  to  me  and  said,  "If  it  hadn't 
been  true,"  she  says,  "he  would  have  come  and  told 
me,"  she  says. 

"Yes,"  I  says. 

"But  if  he  didn't  care  for  me  any  more,"  she  says, 
"he  might  not  care  what  I  thought,"  she  says,  and  she 
looked  up  at  me  again.  "Do  you  think  it  was  that?  " 
she  says. 

"  You  can  search  me,"  says  I,  and  I  watched  her  go 
into  the  house,  where  I  knew  she'd  sit  over  some  book 


196  JIM  HANDS 

she  was  reading.  She  was  always  a  great  one  for  books,  — 
books,  books,  books,  —  and  in  them  days  she  ate  'em 
up  one  after  another,  and  would  sometimes  stop  and 
look  out  the  window  an  hour  at  a  time,  or  maybe  go  up 
to  walk  in  Turner's  Woods,  where  the  leaves  had  begun 
to  shake  down  from  the  trees.  I  remember  I  followed 
her  into  the  front  room. 

"Girl,"  I  says,  "you  don't  still  have  any  feelings  for 
him  ?  "  I  says. 

"No  !  "  she  says,  clear  and  strong,  and  I  felt  a  heap 
better  to  hear  her  say  it. 

Annie  was  pretty  sure  of  it,  too.  She  had  packed 
up  all  the  Villet  girl's  things  and  put  'em  in  the  attic, 
and  it  seemed  as  if,  when  that  was  done,  we  had  a  clean 
slate.  It  only  goes  to  show  that  a  feller  can't  tell. 

It  was  the  Boss  who  told  me  a  week  or  two  after 
that,  and  I  couldn't  keep  it.  I  told  right  out,  when  I 
got  home,  that  when  Bob  Harvey  had  gone  away  he 
hadn't  gone  back  to  finish  his  college. 

"Where  did  he  go?"  says  Katherine  and  Annie. 

"Nobody  knows,"  says  I.     "He  just  disappeared." 

"Nobody  knows?"  says  Annie. 

"No,"  says  I.  "He's  dropped  out  of  sight  like  a  rat 
gone  into  a  hole,"  I  says.  "I  guess  we've  all  seen  the 
last  of  him,"  I  says;  "and  little  I  knew  we  would/'  I 
says,  "when  he  stopped  me  last  week  and  asked  me  if 
Katherine  had  heard  about  the  trouble  and  whether 
she  believed  it." 


JIM  HANDS  197 

"What  did  you  tell  him?"  says  the  girl,  with  the 
words  in  her  throat  and  coming  out  very  slow. 

"Why,  I  told  him  the  truth,"  I  says.  "I  said  you  not 
only  believed  it,  but,  more  than  that,  you  knew  it,  and 
I  said  he  probably  knew  that  once  his  father  had  told  me 
that  my  daughter  weren't  good  enough  for  him,  and  that 
now  it  had  turned  out  that  he  weren't  good  enough  for 
you,  or  any  other  girl ;  and  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
make  a  bluff  at  hitting  me  with  his  closed  fist,  but  he 
only  said,  'It's  a  big  farce  to  believe  in  anybody/  just 
as  if  he  was  the  one  who'd  been  injured,  and  he  walked 
away.  It  was  that  day  he  left  town,"  I  says. 

"You  told  him  that !"  says  Katherinc. 

"Yes,"  I  says.  "What's  the  matter?  Wasn't  it 
true?" 

But  she  only  nodded,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  It  is  strange  how  hard  it  is  for  some  women  to 
root  up  things  out  of  their  hearts.  By  and  by  she 
raised  her  head  and  says,  "  Nobody  stood  by  him  - 
not  one,"  she  says,  and  Annie  and  I  looked  at  each 
other. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THEN  the  letter  came.  It  was  that  very  night  that 
the  Argus  was  near  sudden  death. 

I  was  a  stockholder  in  the  Argus  then,  though  it 
makes  me  laugh  when  I  think  of  myself  as  a  publisher. 
It  was  The  Imperial  Press  and  Printing  Company.  It's 
the  Harden  County  Argus  right  here  in  this  little 
factory  town.  It  has  a  printing-press  with  the  hip  dis 
ease  or  something  like  that,  eight  shelves  of  old  adver 
tising  cuts,  a  stack  of  cardboard,  and  an  inch  and  a  half 
of  gray,  mossy-looking  dust  over  everything,  and  over 
the  files  of  the  paper  in  particular. 

Old  Edward  Knowles  is  the  editor,  and  I  guess  about 
the  sole  asset.  He  has  got  a  kind  of  a  pursy  look  to  his 
mouth  from  blowing  dust  off  things.  I  don't  know  how 
old  he  is,  but  he  can  sit  on  a  box  and  blink  his  old  eyes 
at  the  dirty  ceiling  and  talk  kinder  personal  about  the 
election  of  Lincoln, — though  he  was  a  journeyman 
printer  then,  —  and  tell  what  the  platforms  and  major 
ities  were  for  every  year,  I  don't  know  how  far  back. 
And  then  he'll  go  down  to  the  station  with  his  big 
trousers  flapping  on  his  little  legs  to  see  who  come  in  on 
the  train,  and  maybe  get  a  couple  of  items,  as  he  always 

198 


JIM  HANDS  199 

calls  'em,  for  the  "Local  News"  and  "Personal  Men 
tion." 

Somehow  I  never  think  of  the  old  man  without  think 
ing  of  Mazie  Marcou  and  her  smile  and  her  high-heel 
shoes  and  her  yeller  hair.  It's  that  easy  to  be  fooled 
about  people !  And  it  come  to  me  as  I  was  going  down 
from  the  noon  meal  at  home  to-day  how  I  got  into  the 
scrape  with  them  two  myself. 

I  remember  well  enough  what  a  time  I  had  waiting 
for  my  money.  I'd  sold  the  old  man  a  lot  of  land  up  on 
Maple  Street  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  he 
paid  me  along  two  or  three  dollars  at  a  time,  and  then 
wait  and  then  fifty  cents.  You  know  there's  some  folks 
ain't  got  enough  money  sense  to  buy  a  nickle  cigar  and 
come  away  with  the  right  change.  They  ain't  to  blame, 
and  I  couldn't  take  the  land  away  from  him.  I  couldn't 
find  the  courage.  The  old  man  had  built  a  cottage  on 
it,  and  he  and  his  old  lady  lived  there  and  liked  to  sit  on 
the  steps  evenings  in  summer  and  bow  to  folks,  and  in 
a  case  like  that  I  guess  I  ain't  got  a  lot  of  money  sense 
either,  mortgage  or  no  mortgage. 

He  says  to  me :  "  Jim,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  I  never 
had  subscribers  so  hard  to  collect  from  as  this  summer," 
he  says.  "  They've  never  been  so  complimentary  about 
the  paper  before,"  he  says,  "and  that's  a  bad  sign  sure," 
he  says.  "  I  took  twenty  of  'em  out  on  the  Camden 
Road  for  potatoes  and  wood,  and  even  them  is  slow. 
You  know  I'd  like  to  pay  you,  but  somehow  I  guess  you 


200  JIM  HANDS 

better  take  a  couple  of  thousand  shares  of  stock  in  The 
Imperial  Company,"  he  says.  "  I  own  the  whole  thing 
now/'  he  says,  "  and  never  did  understand  much  about 
corporation  finance,  anyhow,  though  enough  to  know 
how  bad  Joe  Burton  rolled  me  out  when  I  bought  the 
company." 

"  How  much  is  a  share  worth  ?"  I  says. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  Jim,"  says  he.  "I  don't 
know.  I  never  give  it  no  study,  like  I  give  the  railroad 
company's  figures.  I  got  my  suspicions,"  he  says,  "  and 
I've  had  'em  for  twenty  years,"  he  says,  "but  I  ain't 
done  nothing  to  confirm  'em,  for  the  paper  is  an  old 
friend  and  I  love  it,  and  I  ain't  going  to  do  nothing  to 
reflect  on  it  no  way." 

Well,  of  course  I  had  to  laugh.  It  was  worth  stand 
ing  a  loss  to  see  the  wrinkles  on  the  old  man's  face 
and  his  fingers  scratching  in  his  gray  hair,  and  find  an 
honest  feller  like  him,  who  meant  to  pay  his  bills  and 
almost  never  got  around  to  it. 

You  know  how  them  things  work  in  your  mind.  Why, 
I  thought  of  fifty  things  in  a  minute.  I  remembered  how 
my  Annie  had  noticed  a  picture  of  the  old  man's  son 
hanging  over  his  desk  in  the  printing-shop  —  a  picture 
of  a  young  feller  with  a  big  tie  and  a  sheepish  smile  and 
hair  all  brushed  up  and  greased,  maybe.  And  how  she'd 
found  out  that  the  boy  was  drowned  when  he  was 
twenty-one.  And  I  remembered  them  editorials  I'd 
read  in  the  Argus  sometimes.  They  had  a  lot  of  long 


JIM  HANDS  201 

words,  but  even  some  of  the  men  at  the  factory  read 
'cm  and  would  say,  "That's  right!"  or  "That's  going 
some!"  or  "That's  slinging  the  words  all  right!" 
And  I  thinks  to  myself  how  the  old  man  was  always 
writing  hardest  for  the  under  dog,  and  how  he  must  have 
put  himself  to  it.  There  was  sweat  in  them  editorials 
-  especially  when  he  was  writing  about  some  man  in 
town  who  died.  It  didn't  make  any  difference  who, 
either.  You  could  see  that  the  old  man  felt  as  if  every 
feller  who  died  had  been  just  as  straight  and  good  and 
smart  as  the  greatest  man  that  ever  lived.  And  he'd 
make  you  half  believe  it,  too,  even  if  it  was  a  feller  like 
Dave  Pierson. 

So,  as  I  say,  I  looked  at  old  Ed  and  remembered  how 
he  used  to  talk  about  the  power  of  the  press,  as  he 
called  it,  and  the  sphere  of  a  writer's  influence  and  the 
like  of  that,  and  go  without  a  summer  suit  of  clothes  just 
so's  he  could  see  his  way  clear  to  buy  a  new  set  of  type 
which  he  never  paid  for.  So  I  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  I'd  take  the  stock,  and  even  if  the  Argus  weren't 
a  money-maker,  there'd  be  some  satisfaction  being 
connected  with  a  "moulder  of  public  opinion,"  as  old 
Knowles  used  to  say.  And  that  was  the  way  I  got  into 
it. 

There  was  a  lot  of  guying  here  at  the  factory  when  the 
boys  found  it  out.  "Don't  forget  the  Sunday  edition 
with  the  colored  pictures,"  says  Ben;  and  Nellie  Conroy 
in  the  st itching-room  was  always  stopping  me  to  say, 


202  JIM  HANDS 

"Mr.  Hands,  I  hear  you  have  a  new  correspondent  at 
Turner's  Four  Corners,  where  the  sawmill  is  closed 
down";  or  maybe  Joe  Bent,  who's  boss  of  the  packing- 
room  and  mean  as  burnt  rubber,  would  yell  at  me: 
"They  say  you've  got  a  new  subscriber,  Jim.  That 
ought  to  double  your  advertising  rates,  old  man"; 
and  the  like  of  that. 

But  I  didn't  care.  The  old  man  was  happy,  and  the 
paper  was  coming  out  and  had  a  circulation  of  seven  or 
eight  hundred  or  something  around  there,  and  the  folks 
that  got  it  in  and  around  this  muddy  little  factory  town 
used  to  read  it  right  through,  including  cards  of  thanks 
and  "in  memorium"  notices, and  the  plate  matter  inside 
that  come  from  Chicago  all  set  up  with  blurred  pictures, 
and  the  medicine  testimonials,  and  the  stories  written  by 
women  with  names  like  actresses.  And  they  read  the 
"Personal  Mention"  first  and  old  Knowles's  editorials 
afterward,  and  they  bowed  to  him  a  little  lower  than  they 
would  to  most  folks  because  he  seemed  to  know  some 
thing  about  almost  everything. 

It  was  that  summer  the  Argus  had  a  close  call  —  the 
same  summer  I'm  telling  about,  and  the  one  when  my 
little  Mike  got  dogwood  poison,  and  they  had  the  big 
election  and  row  over  the  railroad  in  this  State.  We 
expect  to  be  getting  cool  weather  up  in  the  hills  here  by 
that  time,  and  sometimes  the  frost  has  turned  them 
maples  over  there  across  the  river  fifty-seven  different 
colors  and  there's  a  kind  of  snap  in  the  air  that  gets 


JIM  HANDS  203 

into  the  balls  of  your  feet.  But  that  year  it  was  hot ! 
I  can  just  see  the  heat  rising  off  them  railroad  tracks ! 
Saturday  afternoon  you  could  hear  'em  cheering  up  at 
the  field  where  our  boys  was  playing  the  team  of  college 
fellers  from  a  camp  over  at  the  lake. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I'd  bought  a  chair  from  a  mail 
order  house.  It  was  one  my  Annie  had  picked  out  from 
a  catalogue,  and  we  was  waiting  for  it  and  wondering  how 
well  it  would  be  made  and  how  it  was  going  to  look  in 
our  sitting-room,  and  having  all  them  feelings  about 
owning  something  new  that  I  sometimes  think  them  who 
is  rich  don't  know  anything  about.  I'd  gone  down  to  the 
station  to  see  if  it  had  come  on  the  noon  freight,  and  being 
as  it  was  late  and  the  four-ten  train  coming  up  from 
the  Junction  most  due,  I  met  old  Knowles  tightening  up 
his  old  blue  necktie,  as  he  always  did  whenever  he  was 
going  to  speak  to  strangers  or  meet  a  train  for  "  Items." 

He  had  a  way  when  anything  was  on  his  mind  of  never 
saying,  "How  are  you?"  or  nothing,  but  just  walking 
up  to  you  and  looking  at  you  from  under  them  gray, 
bushy  eyebrows,  and  then  firing  off  almost  like  a  gun. 
And  that  day  he  walks  up,  mopping  his  forehead  with  a 
big  silk  handkerchief,  and  he  hauls  a  folded  paper  out  of 
his  pocket  from  among  the  bunch  of  bills  and  receipts 
and  fire-alarm  cards  and  advertising  copy,  and  he  shook 
it  out  and  says :  "There !  I've  got  something  to  say  in 
the  paper  that  comes  out  to-day  about  that !" 

"What's  the  matter?"    I  says.     "It  ain't  anything 


204  JIM  HANDS 

but  a  poster  for  a  theatrical  troupe,"  I  says,  grinning. 
"And,  I  says,  pointing  with  my  finger,  "it  says  the 
Mazie  Marcou  Company  presents  Mazie  Marcou,  the 
Kohinoor  Soubrette,  together  with  eight  high-class 
acts,  including  the  New  York  Comedy  Four  in  the 
screaming  farce,  'The  Door  with  the  Keyhole.7  And 
here's  a  picture  of  Mazie  herself,  looking  happy  and 
well  set  up,  if  I  do  say  it.  Ain't  it  proper,"  says  I,  "  con 
sidering  the  age  we  live  in?"  I  says. 

"It's  proper  enough,"  he  says.  "That  ain't  what  I'm 
talking  about.  But  these  shows  come  here  to  town 
and  they  ain't  any  good  and  they  pervert  the  people's 
taste  and  haven't  got  any  dramatic  merit.  Now  I  can 
remember  seeing  Booth  —  and  anyhow,  I  saw  this 
Marcou  show  down  at  the  Junction  when  I  went  last 
Wednesday.  It's  awful  poor.  A  woman  like  that  ought 
to  be  ashamed.  Her  voice  is  awful.  She  ain't  so  graceful 
a  dancer  as  Jenny  Wilder,  who  sorts  the  mail  at  the  post- 
office,  and  Jenny's  the  worst  I  ever  see  to  step  on  men's 
feet  and  wrestle  with  wall  chairs  or  tip  over  the  lemonade. 
We're  moulding  public  opinion,"  he  says.  "And  the 
power  of  the  press  ain't  got  the  backbone  of  a  tomato- 
worm,"  he  says,  "if  it  can't  speak  out  what  /  think. 
So  I've  wrote  an  editorial  and  told  our  people  what 
they're  getting.  I've  run  it  right  under  a  red-hot  one 
about  the  way  the  M.  U.  and  R.  Railroad  is  trying  to 
own  this  State  and  corrupt  our  representative  form  of 
republican  government,"  he  says.  "We'll  have  a  great 


JIM  HANDS  205 

issue  this  time!"  he  says.  "It'll  be  out  in  half  an 
hour,"  he  says,  "in  time  to  catch  the  R.F.D.,"  and 
with  that  he  pulled  out  one  of  them  slips  he  called 
galley  proof.  "I  always  write  best  under  pressure," 
he  says.  "Read  that !" 

Well,  I  oughter  remember  that  editorial  from  beginning 
to  end, — hide,  hair,  and  shoe  leather.  It's  funny  how  little 
things  will  raise  a  big  stew  that  you  never  expect.  But 
I  can't  think  of  it  all  just  as  it  was  written.  It  said  that 
there  was  plenty  of  reasons  why  people  ought  not  to  go 
to  these  cheap  one-night-stand  shows,  but  the  chief  of  all 
was  that  it  lowered  the  standard  of  the  drama,  and  if 
any  proof  was  wanting  of  the  fact,  all  you  had  to  do  was 
to  go  to  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  and  see  how  it  was  growing 
poorer  and  poorer  every  year.  And  then  it  sailed  off 
and  turned  a  couple  of  big  circles  like  a  hawk  and  then 
it  dived  down  on  to  Mazie  Marcou.  And  them  words  I 
remember  as  plain  as  if  I  had  'em  before  me.  I've 
learned  'em  since. 

Let's  see.  "The  piece  de  resistance  of  this  grotesque 
aggregation,"  it  says,  "which  for  the  foolish  mortals 
whose  vapid  tastes  are  so  whetted  by  tawdry  posters 
that  they  would  pay  out  their  inheritance  for  tickets 
(which  are  not  freshly  printed,  but  used  over  and  over 
again,  carrying  germs  of  disease  from  hand  to  hand  — 
nay,  from  city  to  city)  is  Miss  Marcou,"  it  says,  or  some 
thing  like  that.  "We  are  well  informed,"  it  says, 
"that  dramatic  criticism  is  not  libel  or  actionable  at  the 


206  JIM  HANDS 

bar  of  justice,  but  even  were  it  so,  we  would  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  we  would  hate  to  have  been  hanging  since 
Miss  Marcou  come  of  age.  Her  claims  to  art,"  it  says, 
"are  as  false  as  her  multitudinous  and  poorly  concealed 
aids  to  beauty.  The  modest  peacock,  who  never  ad 
vanced  a  boast  of  sweet  voice,  produces  by  comparison 
with  this  songstress  a  heavenly  melody,  and  the  dancing 
which  attends  the  outburst  resembles  the  antics  a  hen 
makes  dancing  on  asphalt  when  it's  soft,  sticky,  and 
maybe  hot.  Of  course  some  may  like  to  see  this. 
We  don't !  We  never  attend  such  exhibitions.  Non 
est  de  gustibus  disputantum ! "  it  says. 

"I  thought  you  said  you  seen  the  show,"  I  says. 

"Oh,"  he  says,  "  'twas  only  as  a  dramatic  critic,"  he 
says. 

"And  are  you  going  to  show  this  to  the  lady  when  the 
train  comes  in?"  says  I,  hearing  the  engine  whistle 
at  the  covered  bridge.  And  with  that  a  funny  smile 
come  on  to  his  face  and  he  says,  "No,"  he  says.  "But 
it's  not  because  I'm  discreet  or  cautious  or  nothing," 
he  says.  "To  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  Jim,"  he  says, 
"I'm  sorry  that  editorial  is  in  the  Argus.  Maybe  she's 
bold.  Maybe  she's  bleached  her  hair.  Maybe  all  I've 
said  is  true.  But  the  Argus  hasn't  never  attacked  the 
gentle  sex  before,  whether  they  were  gentle  or  not,"  he 
says.  "I  guess  I  must  have  been  inspired,"  he  says. 
"Inspiration  is  the  big  danger  in  being  literary,"  says  he. 

And  yet  when  I  first  set  eyes  on  Mazie  as  she  got  down 


JIM  HANDS  207 

from  the  train,  I  didn't  think  he'd  done  her  any  injustice 
or  nothing.  You  could  tell  she  was  leader.  The  other 
members  of  the  troupe  seemed  like  last-year's  bird-nests, 
but  she  looked  like  one  of  them  lace  valentines.  She  had 
a  dress  covered  with  ribbons  and  this  and  that  and  a 
pink  umbrella  and  a  smile  that  was  fixed  like  the  look 
on  the  face  of  one  of  them  bold  figures  in  the  window 
of  a  department  store.  Her  expression  was  kinder  hard, 
I  thought.  And  as  I  say,  she  had  that  faded  daisy 
appearance.  I  thought  there  wouldn't  be  no  sympathy 
lost  between  me  and  her  unless  she  lost  it.  And  that 
goes  to  show  how  much  you  can  tell. 

I  suppose  I'd  noticed  more  about  her  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  a  feller  that  got  off  the  smoker.  Sometimes  I  think 
the  way  things  is  fixed  in  this  world  is  like  it  is  on  a  real 
stage  with  somebody  you  don't  see  thinking  up  them 
plots  and  making  us  jump  through  the  hoops  or  anything 
that  comes  into  the  plot-feller's  head,  though  I'd  not 
like  to  have  you  tell  Father  Ryan  I  said  so. 

This  new  feller  weren't  no  ordinary  specimen  to  get 
off  the  train  at  this  town.  If  the  Old  Boss  hadn't 
left  the  factory  for  a  few  days  for  a  trip  with  his  youngest 
daughter,  I'd  have  thought  it  was  somebody  come  up  to 
see  him.  You  know  how  it  is  —  this  feller  was  maybe 
thirty-five  or  forty,  and  his  hair  was  brushed  just  so  and 
a  little  gray  at  the  comers,  and  he  had  a  kind  expression, 
and  his  clothes  weren't  flashy  none,  but  they  fitted  him 
good-natured,  and  his  travelling-bag  was  the  kind  that 


208  .  JIM  HANDS 

cost  money.  You've  seen  them  mustaches  cropped  oft 
-  he  had  one  of  'em.  Nobody  knew  him,  either.  Old 
Ed  Knowles  asked  everybody  at  the  station.  He  was 
crazy  for  an  "item." 

"  Well,"  says  the  old  man  at  last,  "I  guess  I've  got  to 
give  it  up.  He  certainly  looks  like  a  Congressman,  and 
I  ain't  sure  I  ain't  done  him  an  injustice  even  then. 
He's  going  to  the  Phenix  Hotel,  anyhow.  This  is  vege 
table-hash  and  batter-cakes  night  there,"  he  says. 
"I'd  have  a  good  mind  to  eat  there  and  set  at  his  table. 
The  only  trouble  is  that  I  have  to  go  to  the  shop  to 
night  and  knock  down  the  forms,"  he  says.  Little  he 
knew  what  was  in  the  air  when  he  said  it. 

I  didn't  know  myself,  of  course.  I  didn't  know  when 
I  come  down  on  to  Main  Sreet  after  supper.  I  remember 
the  stores  were  all  lit  up,  and  a  new  display  in  the  window 
of  the  New  York  Emporium,  and  wagons  in  from  the 
country  drawn  by  horses  with  their  heads  bowed  down, 
and  thunder  sounding  off  in  the  hills  up  the  valley,  and 
boys  shouting  and  people  saying,  "Ain't  it  hot  ?  "  to  each 
other,  and  the  fans  going  in  the  ceiling  of  the  barber 
shop.  I  remember  that  night. 

And  I  seen  a  light  in  the  shop  of  The  Imperial  Press 
and  Printing  Company,  and  so  I  dropped  in.  I  had  a  sort 
of  sense  of  ownership  on  account  of  them  two  thousand 
shares  of  stock.  If  you've  ever  been  in  there,  you  know 
there's  an  outer  office — a  kind  of  waiting-room  with  an 
old  station  bench  in  it  and  a  round  stove  that  hasn't 


JIM  HANDS  209 

known  a  fire  since  anybody  can  remember,  and  colored 
pictures  of  steamboats  with  advertising  frames.  Then 
there's  a  thin  partition  of  wood  and  a  door.  Well,  the 
door  goes  into  what  old  Ed  used  to  call  his  sanctum. 
There's  an  old  brass  lamp  that  hangs  down  from  a  beam 
over  the  table,  and  a  steel  engraving  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  and  a  desk  with  agricultural  reports  on  the  top, 
and  papers  piled  on  it  so's  nobody  could  ever  write 
there  without  using  a  rake  and  a  shovel  first.  And  when 
I  opened  the  door,  there  sat  the  slick-looking  feller  with 
the  cropped  mustache  that  we  saw  get  off  the  train. 

The  minute  he  heard  the  door  he  got  up  as  if  he'd 
been  caught  shaking  money  out  of  a  child's  bank,  and 
he  looked  at  me,  sizing  me  up  in  his  sharp-eyed  way. 

"Jim,"  says  old  Ed,  "come  right  in,"  he  says.  "  You 
own  a  part  of  this  paper,  and  there  ain't  any  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  sit  down.  This  gentleman  is  Mr.  Paul  R. 
Otis,  and  he  represents  the  M.  &  U.  Railroad,"  he  says. 

Before  I  could  say  a  word,  the  feller's  face  bust  into  a 
smile.  He  seemed  to  have  sized  me  up  as  if  I  weren't 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  And  he  stuck  out  a  warm  fist 
and  was  very  hearty. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  says,  finally,  "this  is  very  pleasant. 
And  I  suppose  I  ought  to  explain  to  you,  Mr.  Hands, 
that  I'm  in  a  sort  of  confidential  capacity,  and  act  for  the 
management  of  the  road  in  a  general  way.  Yes,  yes," 
he  says,  for  it  seemed  to  be  a  habit  with  him  when  he 
was  trying  to  be  agreeable.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  says,  "I 


210  JIM  HANDS 

come  up  to  this  town  especially  to  see  the  owner  of  the 
Argus  and  Mr.  Knowles,  the  able  editor  of  the  paper." 

Ed  kinder  smiled  at  that.  He  was  pleased.  "Why, 
we  don't  have  a  very  large  circulation,"  he  says. 

"No?"  says  Otis,  plucking  at  his  mustache.  "But 
apparently  the  little  paper  has  some  influence  —  a  great 
deal  of  influence;  and  the  political  situation  is  such 
that  we  are  especially  anxious  that  no  mistake  be  made 
in  sending  the  right  representative  from  this  district. 
These  editorials  I've  been  reading  in  the  Argus  are 
pretty  severe,"  he  says,  and  touched  all  the  finger-tips  of 
one  hand  with  all  those  of  the  other.  "Yes,  yes,"  he 
says,  "I  know  that  there  have  been  some  things  to 
criticise  in  corporation  management  in  the  past.  I'm 
the  first  to  admit  it,"  he  says,  "but  on  the  other  hand, 
too  much  agitation,"  he  says,  "especially  when  founded 
upon  a  misrepresentation  of  the  facts  -  Yes,  yes," 
he  says.  "And  I  don't  like  to  see  you  making  mistakes, 
Mr.  Knowles,"  he  says.  "I  thought  we  could  talk  it 
over,"  he  says. 

The  old  man  took  his  glasses  out  of  his  case  with  its 
purple  lining,  and  he  wiped  'em  on  his  ink-spotted  silk 
handkerchief,  and  he  set  'em  on  his  nose  and  kinder  bent 
down  under  the  old  brass  lamp  to  look  at  the  other 
feller. 

"Go  on,"  he  says. 

"Yes,  yes,"  says  Otis,  "it  pains  us  very  much  to 
have  you  adopt  the  policy  you  have  written  into  your 


JIM  HANDS  211 

editorials,  Mr.  Knowles.  It  makes  us  feel  that  perhaps 
we  haven't  carried  enough  advertising  in  your  paper," 
he  says.  "It  makes  us  feel  that  we  ought  to  come  to 
some  business  arrangement,  perhaps.  Couldn't  you 
see  your  way  clear  to  give  us  a  chance  to  show  you  that 
your  editorials  are  not  only  hostile  and  dangerous  to  our 
welfare,  but  also  unjust  ?  "  he  says. 

He  was  a  slick-talking  feller.  His  voice  was  soft  and 
sweet,  like  water  running  over  pebbles,  and  he  had  a 
smile  that  looked  as  real  as  Father  Ryan's.  Old  Ed 
leaned  forward  again  and  he  smiled,  too,  but  I  seen  his 
hand  on  the  table  shut  so  hard  the  veins  stood  out,  and  all 
the  old  rheumatism  joints  were  shiny,  and  I  knew  what  it 
meant. 

"I  believe  we  could  come  to  some  kind  of  an  under 
standing,"  he  says,  kinder  whispering. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  says  Otis,  letting  his  finger-tips  slide 
out  and  rubbing  his  hands  together.  "We would  not 
expect  a  hostile  attitude  from  the  Argus,"  he  says,  "and 
we  would  expect  to  pay  fifty  dollars  a  month  for  a  year, 
and  you  could  give  us  any  space  that  was  convenient. 
Naturally  enough  we  wouldn't  want  to  do  this  with  a 
hostile  agitating  paper,"  he  says.  "You  would  under 
stand  that,"  he  says.  "We'd  rely  on  a  verbal  agree 
ment.  Fifty  dollars  a  month." 

At  that  old  man  Knowles  let  out  a  kind  of  a  sigh,  and 
he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  till  it  creaked,  and  he  began 
to  rub  the  arms  of  it. 


212  JIM  HANDS 

Finally,  he  says,  beginning  in  a  kind  of  a  whisper, 
"Mr.  Otis,"  he  says,  "I  ain't  a  young  man,  and  I've 
been  editor  of  this  paper  for  a  good  many  years.  I  never 
had  no  such  advertising  contract  as  that  before.  It 
would  almost  double  the  income  of  the  Argus,"  he  says. 
"Yes,  Jim,"  he  says,  looking  at  me,  "that's  what  it 
would  do,  sure,"  he  says.  "But,"  he  says,  standing  up 
and  putting  his  hands  behind  him,  "there  ain't  been  a 
word  I've  ever  written  for  the  Argus  that  didn't  come 
from  my  heart.  If  anybody  seen  it  there,  they  might 
not  believe  it,  but,  by  Jingo,  they  knew  I  believed  it ! 
They  knew  I  wouldn't  drive  up  to  their  door  and  lie  to 
'em  in  the  face,  and  they  knew  I  wouldn't  do  it  in  the 
Argus.  The  paper  ain't  made  any  money,"  he  says. 
"Neither  have  I.  My  wife's  had  to  get  along  sometimes 
without  a  dress  to  go  to  the  strawberry  festivals  or  the 
like  of  that,"  he  says.  "She  didn't  mind,  I  guess/'  he 
says,  thoughtful,  and  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
"Anyhow,"  he  says,  "I've  run  this  paper,  and  if  I  did  it 
for  money,  I  ain't  got  any.  I  ain't  got  much  of  any 
thing  except  the  influence  the  Argus  has.  I  ain't  even 
got  any  children  now,  except  the  Argus.  It  ain't 
much.  It  ain't  large.  But  it's  a  virtuous  daughter,  Mr. 
Otis,  and  I  ain't  going  to  sell  her.  I  love  this  paper." 

And  with  that  he  brought  his  finger  down  as  if  he  had 
a  charge  of  powder  and  shot  loaded  in  it.    "Mr.  Otis,"  he 
says,  "I  know  you.     You  are  one  of  these  accelerators  — 
one  of  these  public-opinion  agents.     You're  somebody's 


JIM  HANDS  213 

dog.  You  smile.  But  it's  a  fake,"  he 'says.  "There 
ain't  any  smile  in  your  soul,"  he  says.  "  You're  bought 
by  somebody.  I  ain't  bought  by  nobody,"  he  says, 
making  his  finger.  And  I  seen  right  then  that  old 
Ed  weren't  short  and  bowlegged  and  bothered  with 
bills.  I  seen  he  was  the  goods. 

"So,"  he  says,  "there's  some  distinctions,"  he  says, 
"even  in  a  democracy,"  he  says.  "Mr.  Otis,  this  is  my 
sanctum.  There  ain't  a  piece  of  mahogany  or  ten 
dollars'  worth  of  furniture  in  it.  But  it's  my  sanctum, 
and  you  ain't  welcome  in  it.  Your  profession  is  corrup 
tion  ! "  he  says. 

The  feller  must  have  had  a  hide  like  an  oak-tanned 
engine  belt.  He  got  kinder  red,  and  his  smile  kinder 
turned  on  to  one  side  of  his  face  as  if  it  hurt  him  and  he 
was  trying  to  get  rid  of  it.  Perhaps  he  was  used  to 
taking  slaps  in  spite  of  his  fine  clothes  and  nice-parted 
hair.  It  ain't  necessary  for  a  slave  to  go  barefoot  in 
these  days.  He  stuck  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
pulled  out  a  fountain-pen  and  twirled  it  in  his  fingers,  and 
when  he  spoke  it  was  just  as  soft  as  ever. 

"I'm  sorry  you  take  that  attitude,"  he  says,  "es 
pecially  as  you're  fond  of  the  Argus.  Maybe  I  can  make 
you  see  the  matter  in  a  different  light,  Mr.  Knowles. 
I  don't  want  to  do  anything  that  would  cause  you  or 
Mr.  Hands  any  hardship.  But  as  you  know,  you  put 
up  your  stock  in  the  Argus  at  the  bank  last  April.  You 
indorsed  it  over  and  gave  a  contract  for  a  forfeiture  of 


214  JIM  HANDS 

your  equity  in  case  you  failed  to  pay  for  four  hundred 
dollars  of  notes  when  they  came  due.  And  they're 
due  before  noon  to-morrow.  In  this  State  the  forfeiture 
is  good,"  he  says. 

"Well,  the  boys  at  the  bank  will  renew  for  me/'  says 
old  Ed. 

The  Otis  feller  grinned.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "the 
boys,  as  you  call  'em,  have  been  pretty  nice  to  you, 
haven't  they?  But  you  see  the  railroad  has  some  in 
fluence,  too.  We  do  a  lot  of  business  with  this  little 
bank  here,  and  I  just  bought  your  notes,  and  I've  got  the 
majority  of  your  stock  in  my  valise  at  the  hotel.  And 
I  ain't  going  to  renew  the  contract.  I  guess  you've  got 
the  last  of  your  credit,"  he  says.  "You  might  get  the 
money,"  he  says,  "if  it  weren't  for  the  fact  that 
the  average  man  would  advance  you  more  sympathy 
than  money,"  he  says.  "Perhaps  I'll  own  the  Argus 
to-morrow,"  says  he,  slow  and  smiling. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

I  TELL  you  I  never  see  such  a  look  as  come  into  old 
Ed's  face.  The  paper  was  the  only  thing  he  had  in  the 
world.  He  was  rooted  right  into  it.  And  what  he 
heard  turned  him  white  as  your  collar. 

"Well,"  says  Paul  R.  Otis,  "can't  you  see  your  way 
clear  to  a  change  in  policy,  Mr.  Knowles?  Of  course, 
in  that  case,  we'd  let  the  little  debt  go  for  a  while." 

I  seen  the  old  man  open  and  shut  his  hands.  He 
kinder  looked  around  the  office  as  though  he  was  seeing 
it  for  the  last  time,  and  he  picked  up  a  copy  of  the 
paper  and  looked  at  one  side  and  turned  it  over  and 
looked  at  the  other. 

"No,"  he  says,  "you  can  buy  the  press  and  the 
name  and  the  files,"  he  says,  "and  you  can  kill  the 
Argus.  You  can  bury  it.  But  you  can't  buy  the  Argus. 
For  the  Argus  is  me,"  he  says,  and  put  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

"Is  that  the  way  you  feel,  Mr.  Hands?"  says  the 
other  feller,  turning  to  me. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  I  says.  "My  feeling  is  different.  His 
is  mental.  But  my  feeling  is  all  in  my  body,"  I  says. 
"I'm  itching,"  I  says,  "I'm  itching  to  wipe  the  floor 
with  you." 

I  think  I  frightened  the  feller.  He  got  up,  and  just  as 

215 


216  JIM  HANDS 

he  took  a  step,  the  door  from  the  outer  office  opened  and 
in  come  a  flash  of  blue  ribbons  and  pink  hat.  It  was 
Mazie  Marcou,  as  sure  as  you're  a  foot  high ! 

"Well,"  she  says,  smoothing  her  yeller  hair  with  one 
hand,  "I'm  a  lady,"  she  says,  "but  you  can  tie  a  can  to 
me  if  I  ever  saw  anything  to  beat  this,"  she  says.  "It's 
funny  what  you  can  see  when  you  ain't  got  a  gun/' 
she  says,  "even  in  a  little  burg  like  this,"  she  says. 
"You're  Mr.  Knowles,  the  editor  and  dramatic  critic?  " 
she  says. 

The  old  man  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"Well,  say,"  she  says,  "when  I  come  in  and  heard 
voices  and  sat  down  outside,  I  was  loaded  with  some  emo 
tional  acting.  I  had  a  speech,"  she  says,  "with  class 
to  it.  You  roasted  our  show.  I  ain't  fussing  about 
that.  We  like  that  talk  about  our  not  being  a  high-brow 
show.  It  draws  the  crowd.  We've  sold  out  the  whole 
house  to-night  on  what  you  wrote,"  she  says.  "It's 
something  more  personal,"  she  says,  "and  I  want  you 
to  know  I  don't  care  whether  I  sing  like  a  peacock  or 
dance  like  a  hen  on  hot  tar.  Them  things  is  nothing  to 
me.  I've  been  been  married  twice  and  I've  heard  'em 
before,  especially  from  the  last  one.  But  there's  one 
thing,"  she  says,  "that  troubles  me,"  she  says,  "and  it 
ain't  the  peacock  business.  No,"  she  says,  "I  come  in 
for  an  explanation.  You  called  me  something  that 
don't  sound  good  to  me.  It  sounds  like  an  insult, 
and  I  don't  stand  for  insults  from  no  dramatic  critic." 


JIM  HANDS  217 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  says  old  Ed,  looking  like  a  man  who 
has  been  shot  full  of  trouble  from  first  one  barrel  and 
then  the  other;  "what  was  it?  "  he  says. 

'"De  gustibus,"  says  Mazie,  flushing  red.  "The 
orchestra  leader's  an  Eyetalian,  but  even  he,  who  has 
got  an  awful  long  string  of  them  abusives,  couldn't 
answer  for  this  'gustibus,'"  she  says. 

I  saw  old  Ed  reach  for  a  book  as  if  he  was  going  to 
show  her,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"Some  other  time,  old  man,"  she  says.  "I'll  take 
your  word  for  it.  And  from  what  I  could  hear  sitting 
outside,  you've  got  a  swell  lot  of  trouble  already," 
she  says.  "I  heard  this  gent  here,  I  heard  what  he 
said,"  she  says,  giving  Otis  a  look,  and  turning  up  her 
nose  full  of  contempt.  "I  heard  him  blackmailing 
you,"  she  says.  And  then  she  turned  again  to  Otis,  and 
says,  "Do  you  think  you  can  get  away  with  it?  "  she 
says. 

Otis  puts  his  thumbs  in  his  vest  pockets  and  whistled. 
"Well,"  he  says,  "I  can't  understand  how  you  can  take 
that  view  of  it,"  he  says.  "My  dear  madam,"  he  says, 
"do  you  want  to  advance  the  four  hundred  dollars?  " 
he  says. 

"Do  you  think  I'd  be  working  on  this  circuit  if  I  had 
four  hundred  dollars?  "  she  says.  "Oh,  no,"  she  says. 
"Not  this  particular  Mazie  Marcou.  But,"  she  says, 
looking  toward  old  Knowles,  "seeing  you  say  there 
ain't  no  harm  in  this  'gustibus,'  let  bygones  be  bygones," 


218  JIM  HANDS 

she  says.  "I  like  you,  Mr.  Knowles,"  she  says.  "I 
think  you're  on  the  level,  and  anybody  that's  on  the 
level  these  days  has  got  me  pushing  a  button  on  their 
time-clock.  So  enter  Mazie  Marcou,  playing  title  part 
in  the  '  Power  of  the  Press.7  Villain  thwarted  by  harm 
less  hands  of  womankind.  There's  the  scenario." 

"  The  what?  "I  says. 

"Scenario  —  plot,"  says  she.  "Come  with  me," 
she  says,  pointing  to  me.  "I'm  late  now.  My  show 
goes  on  at  eight-thirty.  Don't  pass  off  into  a  dream, 
mister,"  she  says.  "You  and  I  are  going  to  pull  off 
a  sketch.  We're  going  to  show  this  feller  Otis  that  this 
squeeze-out  business  won't  go  in  a  good  old  U.  S. 
town." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  I  says,  half  getting  up. 

"Ask  no  questions  and  follow  the  old  breeze,"  she 
says,  in  a  queenly  fashion,  and  rustled  out  the  door 
with  her  blue  ribbons  flying,  and  her  hands  at  work  un 
hooking  the  buttons  at  the  back. 

She  said  something  to  the  man  at  the  door  of  the 
Opera  House, and  he  says,  looking  at  me:  "It'll  be  all 
right.  Just  speak  to  me  when  you  come  back,  mister. 
The  show  starts  in  a  few  minutes,  and  we've  got  a  swell 
act  for  an  opener."  "I'll  be  back  in  time,"  I  says. 
"I  only  want  to  tell  a  feller  to  let  my  wife  know  where 
I've  gone,"  I  says,  and  ran  across  the  street.  It  was 
just  in  front  of  the  post-office  I  met  Katherine.  You'd 
have  thought  she  had  been  walking  into  paradise. 


JIM  HANDS  219 

11  Oh  !  "  she  says  when  she  saw  me.  "  Look !  Look !  " 
and  she  held  out  a  piece  of  paper. 

I  took  it  and  I  seen  it  was  like  the  other.  No  date, 
no  place  —  nothing  but  his  handwriting  and  the  one 
word  "Katherine  " ! 

I  looked  her  square  in  the  eyes.  They  were  shining 
and  wet.  I  could  see  'em  in  the  light  from  the  store 
windows. 

"Girl!"  I  says.    "You  don't  still  love  him?" 

She  never  flinched.  "Yes,"  she  says,  kinder  defiant, 
"I  do." 

"After  all  those  things?"  I  says. 

"Yes,"  she  says,  "and  more." 

"Katherine  !  "  I  says. 

"What  is  it,  father?"  she  says,  very  quiet.  I  was 
choking.  "Nothing!"  I  says.  "Tell  your  mother  I 
can't  be  home  till  after  ten,"  I  says,  and  I  walked  back 
to  the  Opera  House  steps. 

The  feller  there  pushed  me  in  and  says,  "Sit  down 
anywhere,  old  scout."  He  talked  to  me  the  way  a 
fight  promoter  talks  to  the  chief  of  police. 

The  hall  was  full,  just  as  she  said,  and  everybody  was 
hot  and  fanning  themselves  with  hats  or  programs.  I 
seen  Dave  Pierson  and  his  wife  in  the  front  row,  for  he 
is  the  kind  that  always  comes  an  hour  beforehand  with  a 
newspaper  and  a  package  of  chewing-gum  so's  he  can 
get  the  best  seat  and  read  and  chew  and  watch  the  hall 
fill  up.  There  was  a  feller  on  the  stage  juggling  with 


220  JIM  HANDS 

Indian  clubs,  all  covered  with  tinsel,  while  the  musicians 
were  keeping  time  with  him  playing  the  "Anvil  Chorus." 
And  the  next  feller  to  me  —  a  feller  that  works  in  the 
packing-room  —  was  saying  in  a  loud  whisper:  " That's 
all  right.  That's  a  good  one.  My  brother-in-law  used 
to  be  a  juggler  for  a  living,  and  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about."  And  then  finally  the  feller  on  the  stage  runs 
off  light  and  easy  and  graceful  on  his  toes,  and  when  they 
clapped,  he  come  out  again  and  bowed  this  way  and 
that,  just  as  if  he  really  cared,  and  maybe  he  •  did.  And 
then  they  turned  the  lights  out  and  threw  a  calcium 
circle  on  the  curtain  the  way  they  do  when  it's  going 
to  be  a  woman  in  a  swell  dress. 

I  kinder  knew  it  would  be  Mazie,  and  it  was.  She 
didn't  look  half  so  tired,  and  she  looked  a  heap  younger. 
She  had  on  a  costume  about  the  shade  of  them  Balti 
more  orioles  you  see  in  summer  —  a  kind  of  an  orange 
and  black,  and  a  diamond  necklace  which  explained 
the  calcium  light,  I  guess.  It  made  'em  look  real.  She 
certainly  looked  fine.  And  she  sang  a  song  about  a 
picture  on  the  mantelpiece  or  over  the  parlor  stove  or 
something.  That  was  sad  and  dragged,  you  understand. 
And  then  back  she  come,  walking  on  springs  and  bounc 
ing  around  and  snapping  her  fingers  and  singing  a  song 
with  lots  of  ginger  called  "Aviating  Anna,"  about  a 
black  girl  who  wanted  to  fly,  till  you  was  moving  your 
feet  in  time  to  it,  and  every  hair  on  your  head  was  a 
jew's-harp.  Maybe  she  was  better  than  usual.  Maybe 


JIM  HANDS  221 

her  heart  was  light,  so  to  speak.  Anyhow,  she  got  the 
factory  boys.  They  seemed  to  catch  her  feeling,  and 
they  just  hollered  for  more. 

And  she  comes  out  smiling  the  same  as  ever,  and  she 
put  up  her  hand  for  quiet,  and  her  face  changed  and  you 
could  see  she  weren't  an  actress  any  more,  but  just  a 
woman.  And  she  began  to  tell  'em  the  story  of  old 
Ed  Knowles,  and  I  hung  over  the  back  of  the  chair  in 
front  of  me  just  listening  and  listening. 

She  told  it  good  —  how  the  old  man  had  always 
been  working  to  make  the  paper  go,  and  writing  what  he 
believed  was  true,  and  sitting  up  late,  maybe,  to  turn  out 
something  the  best  he  could  do,  and  how  he  was  on  the 
level.  I  couldn't  see  how  she  knew  so  much  about  old 
Ed.  And  she  couldn't.  It  was  just  that  she  knew  things, 
like  my  Annie  does.  And  she  told  'em  of  how  she'd 
gone  to  the  Argus  office ;  and  she  told  right  out  about 
this  feller  from  the  railroad,  and  how  he  weren't  satis 
fied  with  corrupting  politics,  but  wanted  to  make  public 
opinion  rotten,  too ;  and  she  told  about  how  he  threat 
ened  to  take  the  paper  for  a  debt  of  four  hundred  dol 
lars,  and  how  it  would  leave  the  old  man  without 
anything  to  do ;  and  she  said  the  paper  was  his  baby, 
and  he'd  always  brought  it  up  and  nursed  it  and 
sweated  for  it  and  got  wrinkled  for  it. 

She  certainly  handed  it  out,  and  she  didn't  seem 
to  be  much  educated,  either.  It  was  a  surprise  to  me. 
I  guess  it  don't  take  education.  At  first,  of  course, 


222  JIM  HANDS 

everybody  thought  it  was  going  to  end  in  a  joke  — 
something  funny.  But  by  and  by,  when  she  had  come 
forward  and  was  talking  strong  and  hard  and  worked 
up,  you  could  see  the  wet  places  in  the  corners  of  her 
eyes,  and  in  the  calcium  light  they  was  just  like  them 
glass  diamonds,  —  only  real.  So  everybody  was  still, 
like  the  woods  is  at  night.  They  listened  to  beat  the 
band. 

"Well,"  she  says  finally,  with  a  kind  of  a  laugh,  "you 
wonder  what  I'm  talking  for.  I'll  tell  you,"  says  she. 
"I'm  betting  on  you,"  she  says,  "you  who  sit  out  there 
—  everyone  of  you.  I'm  betting  that  men  and  women'll 
do  the  right  thing.  The  ticket  man  counted  you  when 
you  come  in.  There's  four  hundred  and  seventy-five 
of  you,  and  I  want  four  hundred  and  seventy-five 
new  subscriptions  to  the  Argus !  "  she  says. 

She  waited  a  minute,  and  then  she  walks  to  the  front 
of  the  stage  and  pointed  to  a  boy,  and  smiled  enough 
to  take  the  chill  off  Joe  Bent,  who's  the  meanest  man  in 
the  factory.  "Do  you  want  to  help  me?  "  she  says. 

"Sure,"  says  the  boy,  and  everybody  seemed  kinder 
glad  to  stamp  and  whistle. 

And  then  she  picked  out  Dave  Pierson,  and  then  an 
old  man  whose  name  I  forgot,  but  he  lives  out  on  the 
road  to  Turner's  Corner. 

"Boys,"  she  says  to  'em,  "the  people  here  is  going 
to  write  their  names  and  address  on  a  piece  of  paper 
and  hand  'em  in  with  the  money.  Nothing  but  cash 


JIM  HANDS  223 

goes  to-night.  Them  that  ain't  got  it  can  borrow. 
And  now,  boys,  do  you  see  this  rose  I've  got  here? 
The  one  that  brings  in  the  biggest  list  gets  that  rose. 
Go  to  it ! "  she  says. 

Well,  the  funny  part  of  it  was  that  that  rose  was  made 
of  tissue-paper.  You  could  have  bought  ten  of  'em 
for  a  quarter,  and  yet  Dave  Pierson  and  the  boy  and 
the  old  man  was  all  sweating  when  they  got  through 
and  outer  breath,  and  red  and  anxious  and  trying  to 
separate  money  from  paper  and  looking  sheepish.  The 
rose  weren't  worth  anything.  It  only  goes  to  show, 
don't  it ! 

And  finally  they  were  through,  and  Mazie  told  'em 
Dave  had  won,  and  she  leaned  down  and  pinned  the 
rose  on  him  and  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  made 
everybody  laugh  except  Dave's  wife,  who  was  mad. 
And  Mazie  asked  the  people  if  Dave  was  to  be  trusted 
to  give  the  money  to  old  Ed,  and  they  laughed  some 
more,  and  so  she  gave  the  cash  and  the  pieces  of  paper 
to  Dave.  Everybody  just  let  loose,  laughing  and  happy 
and  noisy  like  people  get  once  in  a  long  while. 

And  then  she  come  forward  again,  and  she  couldn't 
seem  to  speak  so  loud  or  steady.  She  just  said,  "I'm 
much  obliged.  This  is  the  best  sketch  I  ever  put  on," 
she  says.  "You  see  I  was  right,"  she  says,  "about 
people,"  she  says.  "They're  the  goods!"  says  she. 
"I  like  you  all,"  she  says,  and  them  words  gagged 
her.  So  she  ran  out.  And  the  man  had  thrown  the 


224  JIM  HANDS 

circled  of  light  on  again.  Great  Guns !  didn't  it  look 
empty ! 

Well,  sir,  Dave  come  over  to  the  Argus  office  with  the 
money.  And  there  was  four  hundred  and  seven  names 
and  addresses  and  four  hundred  and  eighteen  dollars ! 

We  counted  it  out  on  the  old  table,  and  had  to  begin 
all  over  again  two  or  three  times,  for  Dave  was  always 
trying  to  tell  old  man  Knowles  how  it  happened,  and 
old  Ed  was  asking  questions  and  staring  like  he  couldn't 
believe  much  of  it,  and  then  Dave  would  tell  it  all  over 
again,  and  tell  about  how  he  won  the  rose,  and  lie 
very  strong  about  how  pretty  this  Mazie  Marcou  was. 
When  he'd  told  it  enough  to  us,  he  run  out  to  tell  it 
and  show  his  paper  rose  at  the  barber  shop,  where  they 
was  just  closing  up. 

And  after  awhile  he  comeback.  "Well,"  he  says,  with 
a  kind  of  a  sigh,  "the  train's  gone.  She's  left  town." 

That  seemed  to  wake  up  old  Ed.  "Gone  !  "  he  says. 
"Ain't  I  going  to  see  her?  " 

"No,"  says  Dave,  "I  guess  not.  They're  going  clear 
through  to  New  York,  I  hear." 

Old  Ed  studied  for  a  while.  "My  God!"  he  says. 
"If  she  died,  what  a  chance  I'd  have  for  an  obituary !  " 
he  says. 

But  he  didn't  say  any  more  for  a  long  time,  and  when 
he  spoke  again,  Dave  had  looked  at  his  watch  and  gone 
out.  So  the  old  man  put  his  hand  on  mine,  across  the 
table,  and  he  says,  "If  we  can  elect  Barnes  instead  of 


JIM  HANDS  225 

the  railroad  candidate,  it  will  be  the  Argus  that  done 
it  —  the  power  of  the  press,  eh  ?  " 

"It  will  not,"  says  I.     "It  will  be  '  gustibus.'  " 

The  old  man  laughed,  but  he  didn't  say  anything. 
After  a  while  he  got  up  and  looked  at  the  engraving  of 
Lincoln  and  straightened  it  on  the  wall,  and  blew  the 
dust  off  some  old  books,  and  walked  around  the  room 
looking  at  everything  as  if  he'd  been  away  for  ten  years 
and  just  got  back.  And  finally  he  sat  down  at  the 
table  and  gave  a  sigh,  the  way  a  kid  does  when  he's 
put  to  bed,  and  he  kinder  leaned  forward  with  his  head 
on  his  arms.  That's  the  way  I  left  him  —  leaning  over 
the  table  under  the  old  brass  lamp  —  in  the  sanctum. 

As  I  walked  home  a  cold  wind  was  blowing  down 
from  them  mountains  way  up  the  valley.  The  weather 
had  changed  in  an  hour.  I  could  see  my  breath  on  the 
air,  and  the  leaves  made  a  dry  noise  on  the  trees.  I 
knew  it  meant  autumn  was  coming  over  the  ridge  up 
there  in  the  north.  Many  is  the  time  I've  seen  it 
come,  and  there's  a  smell  in  the  wind  that  tells  you  - 
just  the  way  you  know  a  parade  is  coming  by  the  sound 
of  music  and  the  mumble  of  the  people  on  the  curb. 

I  thought  all  the  lights  in  the  house  would  be  out 
before  I  got  home,  except  for  the  one  the  wife  always 
leaves  in  the  hall  when  I'm  away,  but  when  I'd  walked 
by  the  edge  of  Jerry  Pollock's  boundary  wall  I  seen 
the  front  room  was  lit  and  I  could  see  somebody's 
shadow  moving  back  and  forth  across  the  curtain. 


226  JIM  HANDS 

When  Annie  met  me  at  the  door  she  explained  in  a 
whisper.  "It's  the  Boss,"  she  says. 

"At  this  time  of  night?  "  I  says. 

"Yes,"  says  she,  "he  just  come.  He  says  he  must 
see  Katherine,"  she  says.  "I  didn't  know  what  to  do, 
Jim.  The  girl  had  gone  up  to  her  room.  I  told  him 
to  wait  a  minute  and  you'd  be  back.  And  oh,  Jim, 
what  do  you  suppose  has  happened  now  ?  "  she  says. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  says,  and  walked  through  the  door 
into  the  light. 

The  old  man's  hair  was  in  a  thousand  tangles  where 
he'd  run  his  fingers  through  it. 

"Jim,"  he  says,  "I  can  rely  on  you  and  your  wife 
to  say  nothing  about  this.  It  would  get  the  post 
master  into  a  lot  of  trouble.  But  he  knows  my  boy's 
handwriting,"  he  says,  "and  when  the  office  closed  to 
night  he  stopped  in  and  told  me  your  girl  had  got  a 
letter  from  him.  He  never  noticed  the  writing  till 
he  handed  it  through  the  window  to  her." 

Somehow  I  could  feel  the  back  of  my  neck  getting  hot. 
"I  don't  like  the  methods  you  use,"  I  says,  forgetting 
everything.  "Why  don't  you  hire  a  detective  to 
watch  us  ?  "  I  says. 

"I  have  hired  one  to  find  out  where  my  boy  has 
gone,  and  he  gave  it  up,"  says  he.  "Jim,"  he  says,  "I 
don't  want  to  watch  you  or  anybody  in  your  family," 
he  says.  "I  wouldn't  take  my  boy  back  if  I  knew 
where  he  was.  I  just  want  to  know  so  as  to  know, 


JIM  HANDS  227 

that's  all,"  says  he;  "and  I  came  here  to-night  in  a 
hurry  because  I  want  to  see  that  envelope/'  he  says. 
"I  was  afraid  it  might  get  destroyed  before  I  could  get 
a  look  at  the  postmark." 

"The  letter  wasn't  addressed  to  us,"  says  my  Annie 
with  a  toss  of  her  head;  "I  will  call  my  daughter.  It 
was  her  letter,  and  you  can  ask  her." 

He  looked  from  me  to  Annie  and  back  again.  A 
little  smile  came  into  his  face.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  says. 
"Would  it  be  too  much  trouble?  " 

At  that  Annie  went  out  for  the  girl,  and  I  can  see 
Katherine  now  as  she  came  in  that  door.  She  had  put 
on  one  of  them  things  the  women  call  house  dresses  that 
are  soft  and  hang  in  folds  and  have  ribbons  tacked  on 
here  and  there  like  tails  at  a  donkey-party  —  but  one 
of  them  light-colored  things  and  soft.  It  fell  apart  at 
the  neck  and  showed  her  bare  throat,  and  slipped  back 
from  her  wrists  and  showed  her  arms.  There  was  a 
happy  look  in  her  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  mouth,  and 
you'd  never  known  she'd  had  a  evil  day  in  her  life. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  after  a  minute  he  moved  his 
foot  and  says,  "The  letter!" 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Harvey,"  she  says,  and  smiled. 
I  guess  he  seen  his  mistake,  because  he  blinked  his  eyes 
a  couple  of  times  the  way  he  does  when  somebody  gets 
the  best  of  him,  and  he  kind  of  bowed. 

"You  spoke  of  this  letter,"  she  says,  holding  it  up. 
"As  you  know,  sir,  I  didn't  encourage  him  to  write  it. 


228  JIM  HANDS 

It's  not  very  long,  anyway/'  she  says,  "but  I  think  you 
would  be  interested.  See!"  she  says,  "it's  just  one 
word.  It's  my  name." 

She  held  it  out  to  him,  and  I  was  kind  of  surprised 
that  he  looked  at  it.  "It's  like  somebody  calling, 
isn't  it?"  she  says. 

"The  envelope  is  what  I  want  to  see,"  says  he,  with 
a  growl.  "What  was  the  postmark?" 

"Mr.  Harvey,"  she  says,  "now  you  are  speaking  ofi 
another  thing  entirely!" 

I  seen  him  raise  his  eyebrows,  but  she  just  leaned  back 
against  the  door-post.  "Before  I  show  you  that," 
she  says,  "I'd  like  to  ask  you  a  question.  We  are  very 
simple  people  and  we  reason  in  simple  ways,"  she  says. 
"Suppose  you  see  that  postmark,  —  for  that's  all  there 
is  left  to  see  besides  my  name  and  address,  —  what  will 
you  do?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  says,  looking  nervous. 

"Will  you  try  to  find  him?"  says  she.  "Will  you 
give  him  the  money  to  clear  himself  with  his  friends?" 
she  says.  "Will  you  make  him  go  back  to  college  and 
face  the  stories  they  may  tell  about  him  or  believe  about 
him?  Will  you  make  him  act  like  a  man?  Will  you 
find  out  what  he  owes  to  Anne  Villet  and  make  him 
pay  that,  too,  in  whatever  way  it  can  be  done  ?  Will 
you  tell  him  that  now  is  the  time  he  needs  you  most, 
and  that  you  will  stand  behind  him?  "  she  says.  "Will 
you  tell  him  you  are  sorry  you  didn't  stand  behind 


JIM  HANDS  229 

from  the  beginning  and  all  through  —  to  the  end?"  she 
says. 

"No!"  says  he,  brushing  the  air  with  his  hand  and 
settling  his  neck  in  his  collar.  "No,  I  won't!  Nor 
would  anybody  else." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  "I  would,"  she  says,  very 
soft. 

I  suppose  Annie  and  I  both  moved,  but  the  Old  Boss 
spoke  first.  "After  you  know  all  you  know?"  he  says. 

"Yes,"  she  says.  I  remember  then  we  could  hear 
the  clock  in  the  Opera  House  striking  the  hour,  and 
when  it  was  through  we  heard  the  tick  of  the  clock  on 
our  wall. 

"Yes,"  she  says,  as  if  she  was  thinking  aloud,  "it's 
easy  to  stick  to  those  you  ought  to  stick  to  —  while 
it's  easy.  There  may  be  lots  of  pretty  things  in  affec 
tion,"  she  says;  "it's  only  love  that's  brave,"  she 
says. 

The  Old  Boss  acted  as  if  he  hadn't  heard  right. 
"You  mean  that  after  all  this  time,  and  in  spite  of 
everything,  you  love  him?"  he  says. 

She  smiled  and  says,  "I'm  not  sure  it  is  in  spite  of 
everything,"  she  says.  "It  may  be  because  of  every 
thing,"  she  says,  and  marked  a  place  on  the  carpet  with 
the  toe  of  one  of  her  slippers. 

"Well,"  she  says,  finally,  looking  up  with  them  big 
clear  eyes,  "either  you  or  I  have  got  to  stand  by  him 
now.  He  needs  one  of  us.  You've  said  you  won't. 


230  JIM  HANDS 

Well,  Mr.  Harvey,  once  you  told  me  I  had  too  little  to 
give  him.  And  yet-  "  she  says,  and  stopped.  "And 
yet,"  she  says  again,  "now,"  she  says,  "I'm  the  only 
one  that  can  or  will  give  him  —  all.  And  so,"  she  says, 
"although  the  envelope  with  the  postmark  is  of  no 
value  to  most  people,  I  will  keep  it,"  she  says,  and  she 
bowed  her  head  and  went  out  the  door,  and  not  a  stair 
creaked  as  she  went  up. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  Boss  looked  at  me  and  he  looked  at  Annie.  He 
never  said  anything — he  put  his  hat  on  and  walked  out. 
I  seen  his  back  as  it  turned  the  gate-post,  and  I  seen  he 
had  his  head  bent  over  like  a  man  who's  thinking  as  he 
walks. 

A  long  talk  we  had  when  he  was  gone,  and  Annie  and 
I  made  up  our  minds  that  we  had  a  fight  on  our  hands 
to  prevent  Katherine  from  carrying  out  any  of  her 
notions  and  wasting  herself  on  such  a  feller  as  the  Boss's 
son. 

"An  awful  cost!"  says  my  Annie,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "It  mustn't  be!  She  must  forget  him!  I'm 
going  to  send  down  and  have  my  mother  come  up 
again,"  she  says.  "Not  to  tell  her,"  she  says,  "but 
just  to  have  her  here.  And  you  and  I  must  be  firm 
with  Katherine,"  she  says. 

But  when  either  of  us  tried  to  make  any  progress  in 
those  next  few  days,  there  was  nothing  accomplished. 
Katherine  would  only  say,  "I'm  so  tired  with  all  the 
talk  about  it,"  or  "Why  do  you  worry  about  me?" 
or  the  like  of  that,  and  then  maybe  would  sing  a  bit  of 
a  tune. 

The  Boss  was  worrying  himself.  He  told  me.  "By 

231 


232  JIM  HANDS 

thunder,  Jim,"  he  says,  " watch  your  girl,"  he  says. 
"I'm  not  talking  for  myself  now,  the  way  I  did  once. 
I'm  talking  for  you  and  your  wife  and  her."  And  he 
used  to  go  by  the  house  sometimes  as  if  it  was  just  by 
accident,  and  stop  a  minute.  He  seemed  to  want  to 
keep  his  eye  on  our  family.  Somehow  Katherine  would 
always  manage  to  dodge  him,  but  it  was  his  coming 
there  that  got  him  acquainted  with  old  Mrs.  Byrnes, 
and  I'm  not  sure  it  didn't  teach  something,  too. 

My  mother-in-law's  father  was  a  stone-mason  most 
of  his  life,  as  I've  told  you,  and  he  had  an  arm  like  a 
piece  of  tarred  tow-line.  But  it  weren't  anything  so 
hard  and  gristly  and  snappy  as  what  was  in  my  mother- 
in-law's  head.  What  she  don't  know  is  a  plenty,  for 
she  never  had  no  schooling,  lived  out  in  service,  and 
come  over  here  as  a  girl,  with  one  dress  and  a  basket 
of  seed  potatoes.  But  what  she  don't  know  leaves 
a  whole  lot  of  room  for  her  to  do  her  thinking  in,  and 
sometimes  a  mind  like  that  will  shoot  a  good  deal 
straighter,  not  being  confused  with  too  many  targets. 

The  crust  of  her  pies,  however,  would  have  made  a 
goat  wish  for  oyster-shells,  and  there  was  often  enough 
salt  on  the  fried  eggs  she  cooked  to  give  yer  a  big  sur 
prise.  And  the  way  she  will  dress  when  she  goes  to 
church !  It  is  all  in  black,  with  a  big  rustle,  and  looks 
uncomfortable  on  her  two  hundred  pounds.  It  makes 
you  feel  as  if  you'd  eaten  too  big  a  dinner  just  to  look 
at  her.  And  she  has  a  heavy  foot  around  the  house, 


JIM  HANDS  233 

but  there  is  a  hand  on  her  that  kinder  tells  the  story 
of  lifting  thousands  of  brooms  and  kettles  and  pans  and 
smoothing  many  a  pillow  for  young  ones  that  was  sleepy 
or  maybe  had  the  measles.  It  has  scrubbed  floors 
and  raised  seven  babies.  And  I'm  telling  you  it  has 
the  Grand  Army  beaten  fifty-seven  ways.  It  knows 
something  of  fighting,  too,  but  in  that  way  it  has  nothing 
on  her  tongue.  So  much  for  her. 

The  old  boss  had  been  taking  a  hand  in  politics  that 
summer.  The  men  at  the  factory  didn't  like  it  much 
when  he  began  to  hand  over  his  money  and  his  time 
to  help  lick  Judson,  who  was  running  again  for  governor. 
Judson  was  supposed  to  be  helping  the  railroad  to  own 
this  State.  At  the  same  time  he  was  mighty  popular 
with  workingmen,  for  he  stood  in  well  with  the  union 
leaders,  and  though  there  wasn't  any  union  in  the 
factory  then,  yet  you  know  how  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  boys  feel.  Besides,  we  was  full  of  orders  and 
working  overtime,  and  the  boss  would  be  away,  down 
the  State,  half  the  time,  and  cross  and  overworked  and 
ugly  when  he  was  here,  things  had  gone  so  wrong  with 
him.  He  was  fighting  Judson  because  he  didn't  be 
lieve  in  the  railroad  crowd  behind  him,  and  free  passes 
given  to  anybody  who  had  a  little  pull  here  and  there, 
and  the  ownership  of  the  State,  and  the  like  of  that, 
any  more  than  old  Ed  Knowles  believes  in  it.  There 
weren't  anything  in  it  for  the  Old  Boss.  An  honest 
feller  can  sometimes  work  his  head  off  for  unselfish 


234  JIM  HANDS 

reasons  and  never  get  a  cheer.  He  can  listen  to  them 
that  howl  against  him;  and  find  out  that  all  that  is  bad 
is  mighty  well  organized,  but  that  goodness  bunches 
its  hits  very  seldom  and  grows  slow.  Besides,  there's 
always  a  lot  of  cranks  running  on  in  front  of  a  straight 
feller,  saying  and  doing  the  wrong  thing,  and  while  he 
is  attending  to  them  the  crooks  is  creeping  up  behind 
with  the  sand-bags.  Perhaps  we  oughter  have  got 
together  and  cheered  the  old  man  every  time  he  come 
into  the  upper-leather  room,  but  we  didn't.  We  just 
didn't. 

It  was  one  of  those  times  he  dropped  in  on  us  near 
election  that  the  Old  Boss  first  met  my  mother-in-law. 
Saturday  afternoons,  except  in  winter,  the  factory  is 
always  closed  down  whether  the  goods  get  out  or  not  - 
and  I  remember  the  very  day,  for  the  Camdenville  ball 
team  had  come  to  over  lick  our  boys  and  had  brought 
a  professional  pitcher  on  the  quiet  for  the  last  game 
of  the  season,  and  were  betting  with  anybody  they 
could  find  and  trying  not  to  seem  too  sure  for  fear  of 
spoiling  the  odds.  Their  pitcher  got  thirty-five  dollars 
from  them  and  sold  out  to  Fred,  our  barber,  for  fifty. 
So  we  won.  It's  funny,  ain't  it,  why  fellers  slap  them 
selves  on  the  leg  and  are  tickled  when  they  hear  a  thing 
like  that. 

But,  as  I  say,  it  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  one  of 
those  days  that  come  very  hot  way  along  in  the  fall. 
There  was  some  breeze  coming  down  the  valley,  and 


JIM  HANDS  235 

that  was  hot,  too.  You  could  see  the  cattle  up  in  the 
pasture  there  all  lying  down  under  the  biggest  of  them 
chestnut  trees  in  the  shade,  and  you  could  hear  the 
crowd  hollering  down  to  the  ball  field  and  tell  that 
we  was  at  bat  and  was  knocking  out  the  base  hits. 

Annie  weren't  feeling  well  and  was  somewhere  in 
the  house  and  the  children  were  away.  But  Mrs. 
Byrnes  was  sitting  out  on  the  step  with  me,  red  in  the 
face,  and  squatting  like  a  busted  bag  of  oats  and  swing 
ing  a  palm-leaf  fan  and  singing  one  of  them  old,  up-and- 
down-hill  Irish  tunes  that  anybody  can  make  up  as  they 
go  along.  And  she  was  the  first  to  see  the  Old  Boss 
coming.  He  had  been  taking  a  walk.  It  was  his 
habit.  And  here  he  was  coming  down  across  the  fields 
from  Wilder's  Woods,  with  baggy  trousers,  and  hat 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  and  his  smile. 

And  the  old  lady  says  to  me,  "Jim,  me  bye,"  she 
says,  "here  comes  the  man  who  gives  you  a  position," 
she  says,  "as  my  daughter  Annie  calls  it,"  she  says, 
"though  I'm  a  plain-speaking  woman  and  call  it  a  job," 
says  she.  "And  I  think  he's  coming  here,"  she  says, 
"which  is  a  good  thing,  for  I  want  to  see  him  a  bit 
closer,"  she  says.  "I  understand  he  has  snubbed  our 
family,"  she  says.  "I'll  show  him  something  about 
family,  whoever  he  is,"  she  says.  "And  yet,"  says 
she,  "he  looks  like  one  of  them  rich  men  who  don't 
smoke  cigarettes  or  say  'my  good  man'  to  a  laborer,  and 
hasn't  never  got  a  divorce,"  she  says.  "I  think  him 


236  JIM  HANDS 

and  me  has  something  in  common/'  she  says,  "and  I 
don't  know  how  to  praise  him  higher,  in  spite  of  Annie's 
feeling  against  him,"  says  she. 

"Say  no  more,"  says  I,  seeing  that  it  was  true  that  he 
would  stop  to  swop  a  word  with  us. 

He  had  the  troubled  look  he  had  taken  to  wearing,  but 
a  smile  was  shining  through  it,  and  he  pulled  off  his  hat 
to  the  old  lady.  "How  are  yer  all?  And  this  is  Mrs. 
Byrnes?"  he  says.  "It's  a  hot  day,  Mrs.  Byrnes." 

"Sure,  sir,"  says  she,  dropping  him  a  courtesy;  "ye 
are  right  about  it,  I  have  no  doubt.  I  got  so  hot 
fanning  myself  I  had  to  stop,"  says  she.  "It  was  like 
a  man  in  the  old  country  that  planted  six  potatoes  and 
got  six  from  the  crop,"  she  says. 

"So  the  world  goes,"  says  the  Old  Boss,  laughing. 
And  he  pumped  a  glass  of  water  and  drank  it  and  wiped 
his  mouth  and  looked  up  at  me.  I  knew  what  he  was 
thinking  about  those  days. 

"Well,  sir,"  I  says,  "you  was  down  to  the  Capital 
yesterday.  How  goes  everything?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  like  it,  Jim," 
he  says.  "The  fact  is  that  Lounsbury,  the  lawyer,  is 
back  with  the  railroad  crowd.  He  can  swing  the 
election." 

"And  he'll  want  something  for  doing  it,  maybe,"  I 
says. 

"What  makes  you  think  it?"  says  the  old  man. 
"Lounsbury  is  said  to  be  the  ablest  man  in  the  State, 


JIM  HANDS  237 

and  one  of  the  best  constitutional  lawyers  in  the  coun 
try,"  he  says.  "He  holds  himself  very  respectable," 
says  he,  "and  has  money  and  all  kinds  of  honors  every 
where,  and  there  ain't  anything  he  says  that  ain't  care 
ful  weighed  and  measured.  Where  did  you  get  the  idea 
he  wanted  anything?  But  you're  right.  He's  fifty- 
seven  years  old,  and  he  wants  the  vacancy  left  on  the 
Supreme  Court  by  Matthews 's  death." 

"And  Judson  will  appoint  him?"  I  says.  "Well," 
I  says,  "I  think  I  would  myself,  maybe.  He's  got  a 
fine  head  on  him  —  a  wonderful  head." 

I  seen  the  old  man  catch  his  breath  as  if  he  was  going 
to  let  me  have  one  of  them  storms  of  his.  But  instead 
he  let  the  breath  go  again,  handed  me  a  cigar,  bit  one 
himself,  and  looked  up  at  the  sky. 

"Jim,"  he  says  after  a  while,  "we  Americans  is 
getting  like  the  Greeks,"  he  says. 

"Mercy  on  us,  then!"  says  Mrs.  Byrnes,  "for  it's 
all  I  can  do  to  tell  'em  from  the  Eyetalians,"  she 
says. 

"It's  the  ancient  Greeks,  I  mean,"  he  says;  "there 
was  too  much  head  and  too  little  heart  about  'em. 
They  had  the  brains,  but  they  was  treacherous  and 
deceitful.  They  was  always  selling  out  and  going  over 
to  the  other  side  if  there  was  anything  in  it  for  them. 
They  was  good  fighters  and  builders  like  we  are,"  he 
says,  "and  maybe  better  than  us  someways,  but,"  he 
says,  "they  was  double-cross  artists,"  he  says.  "If 


238  JIM  HANDS 

it  was  only  brains  that  was  worth  counting,  maybe 
Lounsbury  would  be  the  best  judge  in  the  country." 

"But  you're  afraid  of  his  honesty  on  the  bench?" 
I  says. 

"No,"  says  the  Old  Boss,  shaking  his  head.  "'Tis 
a  funny  thing  about  that.  He  is  a  sample  of  a  lot  of 
our  men.  They  serve  them  who  employs  'em.  Many 
a  crooked  business  man  will  make  a  straight  public 
officer,  many  a  crooked  lawyer  will  make  an  honest 
judge." 

"Oh!  ho!"  says  the  old  lady,  with  a  laugh.  "Tis 
fussy  ye  are.  Yer  not  only  want  a  man  to  leave  a  public 
office  clean,  but  you  want  to  have  him  clean  when  he 
comes  there." 

"I  do,"  says  he,  shutting  his  thick  fist.  "And  why 
not  ?  Would  you  have  your  grandchildren  —  Jim's 
Mike,  for  instance — think  he  could  be  crooked  all  his 
life,  and  finally  get  a  public  honor  because  he  was  smart 
and  promised  to  reform?" 

"Ye  have  me  there,"  says  she,  making  him  a  drop  of 
her  apron.  "And  I'll  ask  yer,  sir,  what  is  this  Louns 
bury 's  name?" 

"Ogden  G.,"  I  says. 

"The  hell  you  say!"  says  she,  forgetting  herself,  for 
her  husband  had  been  a  hard-talking  man. 

"You  know  him !"  we  says.  And  I  think  both  of  us 
felt  that  it  was  something  important. 

The  old  lady  screwed  up  her  nose  and  stuck  her 


JIM  HANDS  239 

tongue  into  her  cheek  and  bent  her  head  one  side  as 
if  she  was  thinking. 

"Have  ye  had  a  talk  with  Governor  Judson?"  she 
says  to  the  Old  Boss. 

"No,"  he  says,  looking  at  her,  surprised. 

"Say  what  you  have  in  mind/'  I  says  to  her.  "Do 
you  know  this  Lounsbury?" 

"I  do,"  says  she,  "seeing  you're  in  such  a  hurry,  and 
talk  to  me  as  if  I  was  working  for  yer  by  the  week. 
And  furthermore,  I  wish  I  had  a  chance  to  talk  with  the 
governor." 

At  that  we  both  laughed.  And  the  Old  Boss  put  his 
head  back  with  a  grin  and  says,  "Do  you  think  you 
could  influence  him?"  he  says. 

"Where  would  yer  begin,  Mrs.  Byrnes?"  I  says,  re 
spectful,  and  remembering  the  wash-board  she  broke 
over  my  head.  "You  talk  as  if  Lounsbury  was  an  old 
friend  of  yours." 

"I  knew  him  well,"  says  she. 

"Maybe,"  says  I,  "he  proposed  marriage  to  yer." 

She  gave  me  a  black  look,  and  says,  "You're  very 
funny  for  a  son-in-law  at  your  time  of  life,"  she  says. 
"Smarter  men  than  ye  have  had  something  bounced  on 
'em  for  less  than  your  sauce.  If  we  were  alone,  I  have 
other  things  to  say  to  yer  that  ye  don't  see  often  in 
books,"  she  says.  "And  as  for  this  thin-nosed,  cold- 
handed  Lounsbury,  he  never  said  a  word  to  me  in  his 
life." 


240  JIM  HANDS 

"I  thought  you  said  you  knew  him!"  says  the  Old 
Boss,  with  his  hand  on  the  gate. 

"I  did,"  she  says.  "I  was  in  his  office  many  a  time, 
when  it  was  Emmet  &  Lounsbury  on  the  door." 

"What  doing?"  I  says. 

" Scrubbing  the  floor,"  says  she. 

With  that  the  Old  Boss  gave  a  chuckle,  and  took  off 
his  hat  and  walked  off  over  the  gravel  down  Maple 
Street.  The  old  lady  stood  on  the  step  watching  him 
go.  There  was  a  fly  buzzing  around  her  forehead, 
and  I  could  tell  by  the  way  she  slapped  at  it  she 
was  feeling  the  blood  of  them  who  dug  in  the  peat 
bogs. 

"Jim,"  she  says  to  me,  "where  is  this  man,  Judson?" 

"The  governor,  you  mean,"  I  says. 

"The  devil  with  yer  titles,"  says  she.  "Do  you 
know  where  he  is?" 

"I  do,"  says  I.  "He  comes  up  to  spend  Saturdays 
and  Sundays  at  the  lake,"  I  says.  "He  has  a  cottage 
there." 

"Go  harness  the  horse,"  says  she.  "And  don't 
stand  there  with  your  mouth  open  as  if  your  brains 
were  out  of  breath." 

"What's  all  this?"  I  says. 

She  give  me  a  sniff.  "Well,"  she  says,  "if  you  must 
know,  little  boy,  you'll  go  without  your  supper  to-night. 
'Tis  ten  miles  to  the  lake,  and  I'm  going  to  see  the 
governor,"  she  says,  "to  show  yer  what  an  old-fashioned 


JIM  HANDS  241 

woman  can  do,"  she  says.  " Don't  cross  me,"  she  says, 
"or  ye'll  wish  you'd  never  married  into  my  family," 
she  says. 

Well,  of  course  I  tried  to  hold  back.  The  old  woman 
had  raised  a  lot  of  children,  though.  She'd  taught  'em 
to  fear  sin,  but  they  had  learned  that  sin  weren't  even 
a  poor  second  to  the  old  lady  herself  when  she  set  her 
jaw  and  got  a  kinder  cold  and  hot  look  in  her  blue  eye. 
The  umpire's  face  when  he  says,  "Didn't  yer  hear  me 
say  you  was  out?"  ain't  nothing  to  it.  So  she  went 
upstairs  to  change  her  dress,  and  I  harnessed  up  the 
horse,  —  that  horse  named  Frank  I  bought  from  the 
Phenix  Hotel.  He'd  been  in  pasture  for  a  whole  sum 
mer.  I  can  remember  now  how  I  swore  a  couple  of 
times,  and  maybe  I  took  the  old  lady's  name  in  vain, 
as  they  say.  And  maybe  when  old  Frank  seen  me  get 
down  the  harness  he  done  the  same.  Them  animals  is 
more  intelligent  than  you'd  think. 

It  was  no  afternoon  for  a  drive,  anyhow.  There'd 
been  no  rain  for  a  week,  and  even  the  bushes  beside  the 
road  was  white  with  the  dust.  Many  a  butterfly  would 
turn  up  his  nose  at  'em.  And  furthermore,  I  looked 
up  the  valley,  and  there  was  one  of  them  black  hunks 
of  thunder-clouds  rolling  up  between  the  hills.  It 
was  a  poor  day  for  a  drive,  and  I  was  mad. 

There  was  something  about  it  that  made  me  madder 
yet  when  I  seen  the  old  lady.  She  was  dressed  up  like 
two  Sundays,  a  funeral,  and  christening.  Well  can  I 


242  JIM  HANDS 

remember  the  bonnet  with  the  black  ribbons  setting 
business-like  on  her  white  head  and  the  starchy  look 
of  her  black  silk  dress.  And  I  looked  at  the  seat  of 
the  buggy,  and  I  looked  at  the  width  of  her,  and  I  wiped 
my  forehead  with  my  sleeve  and  wished  there'd  been 
no  half  holiday  at  the  factory  and  that  I  was  doing  a 
hard  day's  work  for  honest  wages. 

I  says  to  her,  says  I,  "I  believe  when  I  told  yer  I'd 
go  with  yer  I  was  crazy  with  the  heat,"  I  says.  "Look 
at  the  thunder-cloud,"  I  says.  "A  regular  dog-day 
shower  left  over  from  the  summer  to  scare  off  winter 
with,"  I  says.  " Look  at  it!" 

"  And  keep  an  eye  on  me,"  she  says,  shooting  a  look  at 
me  and  patting  a  pocket-book  she  carried  in  one  hand. 
"Hello,  Frank,"  she  says  to  the  horse,  and  I  seen  the 
sheepish  look  on  his  face  as  she  said  it.  So  with  that 
she  climbed  into  the  buggy  and  bent  the  step  on  the 
way.  "I've  told  Annie,"  she  says.  "But  what's  the 
matter  here?"  she  says.  "Move  over!  Do  you  want 
the  whole  of  the  seat?"  she  says. 

Anything  for  peace,  with  me.  "You  seem  cross," 
I  says. 

"I  ain't  cross,  Jim,"  she  says,  as  we  went  over  the  top 
of  the  hill.  "But  if  I'm  going  to  see  the  governor, 
'tis  necessary  for  me  to  be  —  what  will  ye  call  it  —  a 
very  wilful  woman,"  she  says.  "I'm  not  so  crazy 
as  ye  think,  Jim.  Do  you  see  this  pocket-book  ?  Well, 
me  bye,  I  have  a  paper  in  there  I've  had  these  fifteen 


JIM  HANDS  243 

years,"  says  she.  "And  in  this  match  that's  going  to 
come  off  it  maybe  will  play  a  part." 

"What  is  it?"  I  says,  switching  the  flies  off  Frank. 

"You'll  know  later,"  she  says.  "For  if  I  see  this 
man  Judson  I'll  leave  ye  near  at  hand,"  says  she,  "to 
listen,"  she  says,  "and  if  ye  hear  me  going  too  far  with 
his  Honor,  or  whatever  you  call  him,"  she  says,  "you 
must  say,  'It's  time  we  was  going,'  "  she  says.  "Don't 
forget  them  words.  For  ye  know,  Jim,"  she  says, 
"that  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  have  little  use  for 
bold  ladies,"  she  says,  "and  I've  made  one  break  already 
this  day,"  she  says. 

"And  do  you  expect  me  to  play  a  fool  before  the 
governor?"  I  says.  "No,"  says  I,  "I'm  fool  enough  to 
go  this  far  with  yer.  And  though  I'm  curious  to  know 
what  you,  who  are  a  strange  woman  he  never  seen  before, 
will  say  to  him,  and  what  you  expect  to  do  with  him, 
I'll  be  the  background  of  this  picture,"  I  says,  "and 
maybe  out  of  focus  altogether,"  I  says. 

With  that  she  give  me  a  scornful  look,  ana  I  could 
hear  her  mumbling  to  herself  as  if  she  was  rehearsing 
something.  And  it  weren't  till  we  got  to  Hampton's 
Mill,  where  the  trees  hang  overhead  and  make  it  cool, 
and  yer  smell  that  kinder  moist  smell  of  the  woods, 
that  she  put  her  hand  on  my  arm  and  says  to  me  again, 
with  a  sort  of  scared  look  on  her  face,  "Don't  forget 
to  help  me,"  she  says. 

But  I  wasn't  thinking  of  helping  her.     "What  a  fine 


244  JIM  HANDS 

trip!"  I  says  to  myself.  "A  goose  chase!"  I  says. 
And  the  first  big  splashing  drops  of  rain,  each  one  with 
a  half  a  glass  of  water  in  it,  slapped  us  as  we  come  out 
into  the  open  and  seen  the  light  from  the  sunset  on 
the  yellow  fields,  running  away  in  front  of  them  shadows 
of  the  clouds.  We  was  up  on  a  ridge,  and  could  look 
down  to  the  lake  a  good  four  miles  away.  I  took  out 
my  watch,  and  it  was  half-past  six  already.  I  knew  it 
would  soon  be  dark,  and  the  rain  had  begun  to  jump 
up  and  down  on  the  buggy  top  as  if  it  was  being  spilled 
out  of  a  tub.  It  was  so  thick  you  could  scarce  see  the 
road. 

"Frank,"  I  says,  "old  horse,"  I  says,  "turn  your  ears 
down,"  I  says,  "or  they'll  fill  with  water,"  I  says,  "and 
ye'll  not  be  able  to  hear  what  I'd  say  if  I  could  talk 
with  freedom."  With  that  I  turned  around  and 
grinned  at  the  old  lady.  She  had  her  best  clothes  on. 
Both  them  and  her  bonnet  was  hanging  this  way  and 
that,  and  the  black  ribbon  on  the  hat  was  dripping  fast 
dye  on  to  the  white  lace  around  her  neck.  She  looked 
like  a  bird  that  has  been  in  the  mucilage  bottle,  and  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  was  sorry  for  her.  I  believe  she  knew  it, 
for  I  seen  her  jaw  set,  and  her  two  fists  was  closed  and 
resting  on  her  knees,  —  very  ugly. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

AT  the  edge  of  the  slope  down  to  Jones's  Landing,  where 
the  summer  hotel  was,  where  the  boarders  sit  out  on  the 
piazza  in  the  summer,  it  stopped  raining.  It  was  grow 
ing  dark  and  cool  again,  and  more  like  late  fall,  and  the 
fog  was  hanging  over  the  lake.  You  could  see  the  stars, 
too,  and  the  moon.  And  I  remember  there  was  one  of 
them  herons  flapping  across  the  lake  and  squawking  as 
it  flew. 

" That's  a  female,"  says  I,  "if  I'm  any  judge  of  noise 
and  disposition,"  I  says  to  the  old  lady. 

"Ye  ought  to  know,"  says  she,  sarcastic,  "for  ye 
have  much  in  common  wid  the  lower  animals." 

"Go  on,  Frank,"  says  I  to  the  horse,  and  we  turned 
down  on  to  the  shore  road,  and  I  remember  when  the 
beast  kicked  a  pebble  over  the  edge  of  the  bank  you 
could  hear  'em  drop  into  the  black,  greasy-looking 
water.  The  moon  had  come  up  big  and  round,  and  I 
tell  yer  it  was  mighty  still  on  the  lake.  It  was  some 
night !  It  was  the  kind  that  makes  yer  feel  that  things 
ain't  wrong,  after  all. 

I  come  near  forgetting  and  driving  past  the  governor's 
cottage.  The  old  lady  hadn't  said  a  word.  She  hadn't 
even  made  a  noise  except  to  lick  her  lips  now  and  then, 

245 


246  JIM  HANDS 

and  I  guess  it  made  her  jump  when  I  pulled  up  old  Frank 
in  a  dark  place  by  a  gate  and  says  to  her,  "Here  it  is." 

There  was  a  hedge  there,  and  somebody  standing  on 
the  other  side  of  it  —  some  woman  —  maybe  his  wife. 
It  was  so  still  that  when  she  got  up,  like  a  ghost  showing 
over  the  top  of  the  hedge,  it  woke  up  a  couple  of  little 
birds  asleep  in  the  maple  tree. 

"Is  the  governor  here?"  I  says,  and  I  could  feel 
Mrs.  Byrnes  sitting  herself  up  straighter  beside  me,  and 
I  remember  her  black  silk  dress  give  out  a  very  strange, 
wet  noise  as  she  moved. 

"Oh,  he  hasn't  gone  far,"  says  the  woman.  I  didn't 
know  who  she  was,  but  the  air  was  that  still  you  could 
smell  the  perfume  on  her.  ' '  He  just  walked  down  to  the 
old  boat  landing  there;  and  if  it's  important,  just  drive 
right  out  on  to  the  landing  itself,"  she  says;  "the  floor 
is  all  solid,"  she  says,  "and  I  guess  you  can  talk  with 
him." 

"Thank  ye,  ma'am,"  says  my  mother-in-law,  "we  will 
do  so,"  she  says,  very  polite,  as  Frank  started  up  again. 

It  wasn't  a  hundred  yards  before  we  turned  down  on  to 
the  old  landing  and  come  out  from  the  shadow  of  the 
trees.  There  was  a  big,  tall,  heavy-shouldered  man  walk 
ing  up  and  down,  and  there  was  so  much  shine  on  the 
water  that,  being  on  the  edge  of  the  beams,  he  looked  as  if 
he  was  cut  out  of  black  paper.  He  was  walking  back 
and  forward  like  a  polar  bear  with  a  summer  circus. 
You  could  almost  see  him  duck  his  head  when  he  turned 


JIM  HANDS  247 

like  the  beast  that  don't  quite  bump  against  the  wall 
of  the  cage.  It  was  Judson. 

I  guess  the  old  lady  knew  it,  too.  For  when  I  stopped 
the  horse,  she  got  out  of  the  buggy  backwards,  feeling 
around  with  her  foot  for  the  step  and  standing  up 
straight  when  she  was  on  the  ground,  smoothing  down 
her  wet  dress.  " Don't  forget,"  says  she,  "to  stop  me  if 
I  go  too  fast  with  him,"  she  says.  "Fm  not  educated," 
she  whispers  to  me  very  solemn,  "and  sometimes  I  have 
to  make  up  for  it  with  something  strong,"  she  says,  "and 
ungentlemanly,"  she  says.  "Just  say  to  me  that  it's 
time  to  be  going,  or  words  like  them,"  she  says. 

The  governor  had  stopped  pacing  up  and  down  by 
that  time,  for  he  seen  she  was  coming  to  speak  with  him. 
He  had  no  hat  on,  even  though  it  was  very  sharp,  and 
you  could  see  the  shine  where  there  was  a  little  bald  spot 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  but  he  made  a  bow  with  his  hand 
and  says,  "Did  you  want  to  see  me?" 

"I  do  that,  your  Honor,"  says  she,  "and  furthermore, 
I'll  tell  yer  who  I  am,"  she  says.  "My  name  is  Mary 
Byrnes,  and  spare  worry,"  she  says,  "for  I  care  nothing 
about  votes  for  women,"  she  says. 

With  that  he  gave  a  kinder  rumbling  chuckle  as  if  he 
was  well  pleased,  and  he  bowed  again  and  says,  "  Well  ?" 

"Have  no  fear,"  she  says,  "I  have  a  better  hand  for 
stating  what  I  want  than  for  always  getting  it.  But  be 
that  as  it  may,  as  my  husband  uster  say,"  she  says, 
"I've  come  to  ask  yer  about  this  judge  business,  —  what 


248  JIM  HANDS 

is  it  they  call  it  ?  —  this  Supreme  Court  business,  and 
I  want  to  tell  yer  that  yer  mustn't  appoint  Lounsbury. 
And  there,  now,"  she  says,  "the  cat  is  out  of  the  bag 
and  climbing  up  her  lef,"  she  says. 

' '  Perhaps  we  oughter  to  be  going  now,"  says  I,  getting 
frightened,  when  I  seen  the  governor  turn  quick  toward 
her,  as  if  she'd  taken  his  breath  from  him.  But  neither 
of  'em  heard  me. 

"It's  funny  you  come  just  now,"  he  says,  slow  enough, 
"just  when  matters  of  that  kind  was  on  my  mind," 
he  says,  and  looked  off  across  the  water  and  ran  his  hand 
down  the  edge  of  his  coat.  Then  he  laughed  again. 
"Well,"  he  says,  "what  reason  have  yer  for  asking  me 
to  leave  Mr.  Lounsbury  out  of  it  ?"  he  says,  as  if  he 
was  talking  to  a  child. 

"That's  easy  told,  too,"  says  she.  "Once  I  was 
scrub  woman,"  she  says,  "in  the  building  where  he  had 
his  office,  and,"  she  says,  "sometimes  after  hours 
when  I'd  be  on  my  knees  on  the  floor  earning  my  pay, 
I'd  hear  him  and  his  partner  Emmet  talking  together," 
she  says.  "Yer  can  get  to  know  men  surprising  with 
no  acquaintance  whatever,"  she  says,  "being  a  scrub 
woman,"  she  says,  "or  a  scrub  lady,  as  them  who  have 
hotel  jobs  call  it,"  she  says.  "It  was  the  winter  when 
my  husband  crushed  his  hand,"  she  says,  "and  the 
family  was  on  me,"  she  says. 

The  governor  shifted  his  feet  as  if  he  wanted  to  hurry 
her. 


JIM  HANDS  249 

And  with  that  she  says  to  him,  "  Don't  be  uneasy,"  she 
says.  "'Tis  quick  said.  There  weren't  anything  alike 
between  Mr.  Emmet,  with  his  big  round  head,  and  this 
Lounsbury  feller,"  she  says,  " though  both  of  them  was 
smart.  For,"  she  says,  "I  heard  them  one  night 
talking  together  after  the  clerks  had  gone,  and  I  was 
pushing  the  soapy  water  over  the  boards.  They  paid 
no  attention  to  me  at  all.  It  was  the  day  they  split," 
she  says.  "They  were  hot  and  angry  wid  each  other 
and  paying  no  attention  to  me.  And  Mr.  Emmet  told 
Lounsbury,  just  as  clear  as  I'm  talking  to  you  now," 
she  says,  "that  he  wouldn't  have  nothing  to  do  with  a 
deal  that  was  going  through.  And  Mr.  Lounsbury  says 
to  Mr.  Emmet  that  he  was  a  fool,  and  that  there  was  no 
need  to  be  more  fussy  about  doing  a  law  business  than 
other  lawyers.  It  was  something  about  the  selling 
of  one  company  to  another,"  she  says.  "And,"  she 
says,  "  Mr  Emmet  weren't  a  fool.  He  said  he  knew  that 
he  was  throwing  away  a  big  thing  to  refuse  it,  but  that,  as 
for  him,  he  was  a  lawyer  that  wouldn't  sit  up  nights 
trying  to  beat  the  law  by  smart  tricks.  He  said  he'd 
rather  look  up  titles  first,  whatever  he  meant  by  that," 
she  says.  ' '  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  remember  every 
thing  he  said,  he  was  that  mad  and  stiff  and  sneering. 
And  Lounsbury  was  sneering,  too.  And  he  said  to 
Emmet,  'I'll  take  this  letter  I've  written  'em  on  the 
firm  paper  and  tear  it  up  ! '  And  he  crumpled  it  up  in  his 
hand  in  a  rage  and  threw  it  into  the  waste-basket,  like 


250  JIM  HANDS 

an  actor  does.  And  he  said  that  he  wouldn't  ever  sign 
his  name  for  the  firm  of  Emmet  &  Lounsbury  again. 
He  was  through!"  she  says.  And  she  stopped,  out  of 
breath. 

"Well?"  said  the  governor,  kinder  short  of  his  words. 

"Well,"  says  she,  "it  showed  me  the  kind  of  man  he 
was  —  this  Lounsbury.  And  I've  heard  since  that  he 
was  that  kind  of  man,  sir,"  says  she. 

With  that  Judson  waved  his  arm  at  her  the  way  you 
brush  a  fly  off  your  other  hand.  "My  good  lady,"  says 
he,  like  that,  "how  can  I  listen  to  these  rumors  ?  " 

"Ho,  ho  ! "  says  she,  making  a  move  at  him,  "rumors, 
is  it  ?  There  was  men  who  took  his  advice  then  who 
came  near  going  to  jail  for  the  taking  of  his  advice. 
And  I  know  what  it  was,  because  that  night  when  he 
left  it  was  me  —  Mrs.  Byrnes  —  that  took  the  letter, 
all  crumpled  up  and  in  anger  forgotten,  out  of  the 
waste-basket.  Rumor,  is  it?  Well,  I  had  the  letter," 
she  says,  "and  I've  got  it  yet !" 

The  governor  turned  on  her  as  if  he  would  have 
pushed  her  off  into  the  water.  He  seen  she  had  a  piece 
of  paper  in  her  hand,  and  he  started  to  speak  once  or 
twice,  and  then  he  says,  "Let  me  read  it." 

And  I  remember  how  he  turned  his  back  to  the  moon 
and  held  the  paper  near  his  eyes.  I  was  half  stiff  with 
watching  him,  and  all  I  could  hear  was  the  horse  breath 
ing  in  front  of  me.  It  was  when  he  was  through  with  it 
and  handed  it  back  that  he  give  a  ugly  laugh,  and  he 


JIM  HANDS  251 

says,  "Who  sent  you  to  me,"  he  says,  "with  this  piece 
of  blackmail  ?  "  he  says,  "this  letter  that  helps  to  tie  up 
Lounsbury  with  that  old  quarry  and  mining  case?" 
he  says.  "So  they're  trying  to  force  me,  are  they?" 

"Nobody  sent  me,"  says  the  old  lady,  mad  as  a  hen  in 
a  blizzard,  "and  I  give  ye  the  friendly  advice  to  talk 
civil  to  me,  whoever  and  whatever  ye  be,"  she  says. 
"I'm  a  taxpayer  and  employ  ye,"  she  says,  "and  I 
want  some  etiquette  from  ye,"  she  says. 

"We  oughter  be  going,"  says  I,  calling  to  her. 

She  never  heard  me  that  time,  either.  She  just  went 
on  in  a  hurry.  "Blackmail,"  she  says,  "is  a  different 
matter,"  she  says.  "Do  you  think  a  poor  woman,  like 
I  was  then,  with  three  young  ones  sleeping  in  one  bed 
for  the  want  of  blankets,  didn't  think  of  selling  that 
letter  back  to  Lounsbury?  I  ask  yer,"  she  says. 

"Why  not?"  says  the  governor,  sudden  and  sharp. 

"Why  not  yourself?"  she  says,  shaking  the  paper  at 
him.  ' '  Because  I  was  what  Lounsbury  might  call  a  fool 
—  one  of  them  honest  fools.  Bad  enough  to  take  a  drop 
of  whiskey  now  and  then  and  not  bad  enough  to  be  rich. 
You've  had  an  introduction  to  me  now,  Mr.  Governor," 
she  says,  "and  I'll  make  ye  even  better  acquainted  with 
me !"  And  before  his  very  eyes  she  tore  the  paper  up 
and  threw  the  little  bits  into  the  lake.  I  remember 
how  white  they  looked,  fluttering  down.  "Now,"  she 
says, ' '  do  you  know  better  what  sent  me  ?  "  And  I  seen 
her  jaw  go  out. 


252  JIM  HANDS 

At  that  Judson  drew  a  big  breath,  and  kinder 
leaned  forward  to  look  at  her. 

"What  interest  can  yer  have  in  this?"  he  said,  slow 
and  cold. 

She  went  nearer  to  him,  and  then  she  says:  "Do  yer 
see  this  dress  wet  with  the  storm,"  she  says,  "that  cost 
me  twenty-six  dollars  and  ninety-five  cents?  Do  you 
see  I'm  stout  and  suffer  with  the  heat  and  have  driven 
eight  miles  here  with  my  son-in-law,  who's  in  a  bad  tem 
per?"  she  says.  "Do  yer  see  me  a  woman  that  ain't  in 
politics?  Well,  then,  what  the  divil!"  says  she.  "To 
say  nothing  of  my  hat !"  she  says. 

"No,  Mr.  Governor,"  she  says,  going  on,  "I  raised 
seven  children,"  she  says,  "and  have  eighteen  grand 
children  now,"  she  says,  "some  of  them  screaming  for 
milk  and  others  wearing  holes  in  stockings,"  she  says, 
"and  as  for  me,  I  hope  the  best  for  all  of  them.  I  don't 
want  none  of  them,  be  they  boys,"  she  says,  "to  think 
they  can  be  one  of  these  Lounsbury  fellers,  smooth  and 
slick  and  successful  and  wid  plenty  of  money  and  brains 
and  the  like  of  that,  and  then  think  they  can  go  to  some 
governor  and  get  appointed  a  judge,"  she  says. 

It  was  then  Judson  turned  around  so  the  moon  hit 
upon  his  face,  with  its  lines  and  shadows.  I  remember 
it  well.  And  he  kinder  hunched  up  his  shoulders  as  if 
his  coat  didn't  fit  him,  and  once  he  wiped  his  mouth 
with  his  hand. 

"Have  you  ever  thought,"  he  says,  "that  some  men 


JIM  HANDS  253 

with  the  kind  of  ability  we  want  in  office,"  he  says, 
"haven't  just  the  record  we'd  like  'em  to  have,  because 
they  are  always  fighting  for  one  side  or  the  other? 
They've  served  them  who  has  employed  'em  with  all 
their  strength,  and  they  will  serve  us,  if  we  employ  'em, 
with  all  their  strength,  too.  I've  been  thinking  about 
that,"  he  says. 

The  old  lady  put  both  her  hands  up  before  her  and 
waved  them  at  him.  ' '  Ho,  ho  ! "  says  she,  with  a  whistle, 
"'tis  second-hand  goods,  then,  we  want  —  the  kind 
that  was  sold  to  some  one  else  first?"  she  says.  "Let 
them  with  mud  on  their  feet  come  in  to  sweep  out  the 
parlor.  Is  that  it,  eh?"  she  says.  "Call  for  the  man 
who  has  been  putting  ground  glass  in  your  food  to  be  the 
doctor.  Let  the  slick  feller  play  the  devil,  and  then  take 
off  your  hat  to  him  and  say;  'Come  to  dinner  with  me. 
I'm  going  to  pin  a  medal  on  ye  and  show  my  oldest  boy 
how  to  be  a  Success/  "  she  says,  —  "with  a  big  S  on  the 
beginning  and  end,"  she  says.  "Is  it  that,  governor? 
Answer  me,  and  I'll  go  back  to  the  grandchildren  and 
tell  'em  just  what  they're  up  against." 

"Wait,"  says  he.  "I'm  just  as  interested  in  those 
youngsters  of  yours  as  you  are,"  he  says.  "But  Louns- 
bury  sees  things  differently  now  than  he  uster." 

"After  he's  made  his  money,"  she  says. 

The  governor  laughed  a  bit.  "Suppose  he  feels 
sorry?"  he  said. 

"Let  him,"  says  she.     "If  he'd  been  a  poor  man  who 


254  JIM  HANDS 

stole  a  watch  for  a  starving  family  or  to  buy  a  half  a 
pint  of  whiskey  or  the  like  of  that,  he'd  been  breaking 
rock  long  ago.  'Tis  well  he  feels  something ! " 

"Well,"  says  he,  and  I  remember  his  very  words  as  he 
spoke  'em ;  he  was  walking  toward  her,  over  the  boards. 
"Well,"  he  says,  "then  you'll  not  forgive  him?" 

"Hivin'  bless  ye!"  says  she.  "Just  say  you'll  not 
make  him  judge;  and  I'll  join  wid  ye  in  a  forgiveness 
that'll  make  his  head  swim,"  she  says. 

With  that  he  laughed  again  —  very  short  it  was,  and 
he  looked  again  over  the  lake.  And  he  looked  for  a 
long  time,  big  and  still.  And  after  a  bit  he  turned 
around  again. 

"Mrs.  Byrnes,"  he  says,  "you  have  been  a  good 
mother  and  grandmother  I  have  no  doubt  at  all," 
he  says.  "And  when  you  go  back  you  needn't  say 
who  told  yer,  but  you  can  tell  them  grandchildren  of 
yours  that  if  they  want  to  be  appointed  judges  by  me 
that  they  have  got  to  show  up  better  than  Lounsbury 
has,"  he  says.  "It  will  cost  me  something  to  tell  you 
that,"  he  says,  "but  there  it  is.  You  have  my  word," 
he  says.  "And  I'm  not  so  sure,  Mrs.  Byrnes,"  he  says, 
with  the  serious  look  going  from  him,  "that  you  can't 
say  to  them  that  if  Judson  was  king  instead  of  a  common 
or  garden  governor,  their  grandmother  wouldn't  have 
to  ask  twice  to  be  prime  minister,"  he  says. 

And  he  took  her  hand. 

"Ye  have  a  sterling  silver  tongue  on  ye,"  says  the  old 


JIM  HANDS  255 

lady.    " Whisper!"  and  she  pulled  him  down  and  said 
something  close  to  his  ear  and  "Good-by,"  she  says. 

I  thought  she  would  talk  to  me  when  we  started  back 
along  the  road,  but  she  didn't.     I  looked  over  my  shoul 
der,  and  seen  the  governor  as  we  found  him  in  the  moon 
light,    throwing   a   long   shadow   as   he  walked.     She 
looked  back,  too,  but  she  didn't  say  nothing.     We  had 
eight  miles  before  us. 

Why,  it  weren't  till  we  got  into  that  stretch  of  woods 
below  the  last  hill  that  she  said  a  word. 

II  Jim,"  she  says,  "I  guess  my  clothes  are  wet,  and  I'm 
awful  cold,  Jim,"  she  says. 

"We'll  be  home  soon,"  says  I. 

It  was  at  the  top  of  the  hill  I  first  seen  her  face,  and 
I  seen  her  eyes  were  wet. 

" What's  the  matter?"  says  I,  easy. 

And  with  that  she  stuck  her  old  head  down  on  to  my 
shoulder  and  shook  and  shook.  "  Jim,"  she  says,  crying 
soft,  "put  your  arm  about  me,  bye.  I'm  only  a  woman, 
after  all." 

Somehow  the  Old  Boss  heard  of  that  night.  The  gov 
ernor  must  have  let  it  out,  I  suppose,  for  after  the  Boss 
went  that  Sunday  to  beg  him  not  to  appoint  Lounsbury, 
he  knew  how  the  old  lady  had  been  there  before  him. 
It  wasn't  till  Tuesday  after  we  had  been  looking  over  a 
new  eyeleting  machine  in  the  office  with  the  foreman 
of  the  stitching-room  that  he  mentioned  it  to  me. 

"Jim,"  he  says,  when  he  had  told  me,  "I'm  coming  by 


256  JIM  HANDS 

your  house  to-night.  I  want  to  tell  Mrs.  Byrnes  what 
a  fine  piece  of  work  she  has  done ;"  and  he  laughed  as  if  he 
not  only  was  pleased,  but  thought  it  a  good  joke,  into 
the  bargain. 

"Well,"  I  says,  " you'll  not  see  her.  She  went  down 
on  the  train  yesterday,"  I  says. 

"You  don't  say  so?"  he  says,  and  stopped  and 
thought  a  minute.  "Is  your  family  all  well?"  he 
says. 

"Why,  yes,"  says  I,  "except  for  a  welt  over  little 
John's  eye,"  I  says. 

"Is  your  daughter  well?"  he  says. 

"Why,  yes,"  says  I,  wondering. 

"She's  at  home?"  says  he. 

I  was  frightened  then.  "She  was  when  I  left  this 
morning,"  says  I.  "Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  I  says. 

' ' Nothing, ' '  says  he .  "Only  you  know  the  employees ' 
savings  account  for  the  benefit  of  the  men  and  their 
families.  Of  course,"  he  says,  "I  look  over  the  deposits, 
and  balance  now  and  then.  You  knew  your  daughter 
Katherine  had  a  pretty  good  balance,  didn't  you  ?  "  he 
says. 

"  She  has  saved  up  money  from  doing  embroideries 
and  the  like  of  that  now  and  then,"  I  says. 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  but  what-  he  says  and 
stopped.  Then  he  looked  up  at  me.  "The  truth  of 
the  matter,  Jim,"  he  says,  "is  this  —  yesterday  she 
drew  out  the  whole  deposit,"  he  says. 


JIM  HANDS  257 

I  looked  at  him,  and  he  turned  around  in  his  desk 
chair  and  began  to  clear  away  the  paper. 

"I  guess  we  don't  need  to  discuss  it  any  more/'  says 
he.  "It's  nearly  noon,"  says  he,  "and  I  suppose  you're 
ready  to  go  home  to  dinner,"  he  says. 

I  knew  what  he  meant,  all  right,  and  it's  true  I  almost 
ran  the  whole  way,  and  it  was  one  of  them  hot  days  again, 
too.  And  I  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  I  looked  around, 
and  my  Annie  says:  "What's  the  matter,  Jim?  What 
ails  you  ?  What  are  you  looking  for  ?  " 

"Where's  Katherine?  "  says  I. 

"Upstairs,"  she  says,  "altering  her  gray  dress,"  says 
she.  "I  thought  you'd  seen  a  ghost,  and  a  very  homely 
ghost  at  that,"  she  says,  "by  the  way  you  look." 

I  didn't  answer  her;  I  sat  down  in  the  kitchen  chair 
by  the  window,  and  my  legs  felt  as  if  they  were  made  of 
macaroni.  "  Tell  her  I  want  to  speak  with  her,"  I  says 
after  a  minute,  "and  I  want  you  to  hear,  too,"  I  says. 
"Don't  stop.  Let's  have  it  over,"  I  says.  She  must 
have  seen  I  meant  business,  for  she  wiped  her  hands 
on  her  apron  and  never  stopped  to  close  the  oven  door. 

I  can  remember  now  how  Katherine  looked.  I  think 
she  knew  the  time  had  come  for  a  reckoning  with  us. 
There  was  a  shine  in  her  eyes,  and  her  nose  moved  when 
she  breathed  like  the  nose  of  a  fine  horse  when  the 
jockey  is  being  weighed  in. 

"You  drew  out  the  money  you've  been  saving?" 
I  says. 


258  JIM  HANDS 

"Yes,"  she  says. 

" What  for?"  I  says. 

"For  him,"  says  she  —  "  for  Bob." 

"  You'  re  going  to  send  the  money  to  him  —  that 
wretch ! "  says  my  Annie. 

"No,  mother,"  says  she,  "not  send  it.  I  don't  know 
where  he  is  —  exactly.  I'm  going  to  find  him." 

"Oh,  Katherine !  "  says  her  mother,  with  a  voice  that 
made  the  girl  look  around  and  press  her  hands  on  the 
lungs  as  if  her  wind  had  been  cut  off. 

"You  mean  that  you  would  disgrace  us  all?  "  I  says. 

"It  is  no  disgrace,"  she  says.  "I  will  tell  you,"  she 
says.  "He  came  to  me  before  he  went.  He  didn't 
ask  me  to  go  with  him.  He  didn't  ask  me  anything. 
He  just  waited  for  me  to  say  something  —  maybe 
to  say  good-by.  But  I  sent  him  away,"  she  says. 
"I  turned  my  back  on  him.  I  told  him  he  was  dif 
ferent  than  I  thought.  I  told  him  I  wrote  to  him 
the  first  time  not  to  see  me  any  more  for  his  sake, 
but  that  the  second  time  I  was  through  with  all  of  it 
for  my  own.  I  told  him  I  didn't  care  for  him  any  more, 
and  "  says  she,  "  now  I  know  it  was  a  lie.  And  I  know 
it  was  for  me  to  stick  to  him,  no  matter  what  it  cost. 
He  can  have  me  and  my  help,  and  I'm  going  to  find  him 
make  him  go  back  to  his  college  and  come  back  to  this 
town,  no  matter  what  he  has  done  or  who  knows  it." 

And  with  that  she  brushed  some  of  her  hair  back  from 
her  face.  I  remember  how  I  thought  her  forehead  was  a 


JIM  HANDS  259 

good  deal  like  Annie's,  for  it  is  at  them  times  you  see 
little  things.  And  then  I  guess  I  gave  a  sneer. 

It's  funny  how  a  sneer  will  make  all  the  difference  in 
the  world.  Families  is  wrecked  by  'em,  and  they  stick 
in  the  mind  when  a  lot  of  profanity  and  even  a  smash  on 
the  nose  is  long  ago  forgotten. 

She  seen  it,  and  the  blood  come  into  her  face  as  if 
somebody  had  slapped  it,  and  she  bit  her  lips  and  shut 
her  hands.  But  when  she  spoke,  you  would  have  thought 
she  was  as  calm  as  milk  set  for  cream. 

"It's  no  disgrace !  "  she  says.  "The  neighbors'  talk 
don't  make  it  so.  It's  no  disgrace  if  I  love  him.  And 
even  if  I  gave  him  all  a  woman  has  and  charged  nothing 
up  against  it,  it  would  be  no  disgrace,"  she  says.  "  God 
didn't  make  me  what  I  am,  to  make  me  reckon  with 
him  for  being  what  I  am,"  she  says.  "And  if  there's 
no  disgrace,  as  you  call  it,"  she  says,  "it  will  not  be 
because  I'm  afraid  of  it,"  she  says. 

I  heard  her  and  I  stood  up.  I  put  my  bare  fists  on 
the  table.  "That's  enough,"  I  says,  with  my  head 
swimming.  "Go  up  to  your  room,"  I  says,  roaring  at 
her.  "I'll  see  you  dead  before  you  leave  this  house," 
I  says. 

She  turned  to  her  mother  then,  and  my  Annie  shook 
her  head  and  looked  away.  I  seen  the  tears  come  into 
the  girl's  eyes.  For  that  moment  had  brought  the  first 
of  many  things,  I  guess.  And  then  she  went  out. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  I  will  remember  a  long  time. 


260  JIM    HANDS 

Annie  had  been  down  on  Main  Street  on  one  errand  and 
another  for  three  or  four  hours,  and  went  home  to  be 
there  when  little  John  and  Michael  came  from  school, 
and  I  was  on  the  door-step  a  bit  early  from  the  factory, 
waiting  for  her. 

"A  nice  wife  you  are,"  I  says,  "to  leave  your  hus 
band  like  a  dead  geranium  in  a  broken  pot  —  locked 
out/'  I  says. 

"Locked  out!"  she  says;  "that's  strange,"  says  she. 
"I  suppose  Katherine  has  gone  to  Nellie  Conroy's. 
Here's  the  key  under  the  mat,"  she  says,  "though  it 
takes  almost  an  average  intelligence  to  find  it  and  walk 
in,"  she  says. 

"Don't  be  cross,"  I  says. 

"I'm  not,"  she  says,  opening  the  door.  "I'm  just 
tired,"  she  says.  "I  worried  all  yesterday  afternoon 
and  was  awake  most  of  the  night  about  Katherine," 
she  says.  "It  will  never  do  to  go  rushing  at  her  waving 
your  arms  any  more  than  it  pays  to  try  to  catch  a  horse 
in  the  pasture  that  way,"  she  says. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  should  have  gone  up  to  her 
shaking  oats  around  in  a  quart  measure  ?  "  I  says. 

"No,"  says  she.  "But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
have  a  talk  with  her  this  afternoon.  Don't  worry,  Jim," 
she  says.  "I  will  do  what  only  a  mother  can  do  for 
her,"  she  says. 

And  then,  just  as  if  her  words  had  flown  on  to  paper,  I 
looked  up  and  seen  a  little  card  pinned  to  the  hand- 


JIM  HANDS  261 

rail  of  the  stairs.     It  was  in  my  girl's  handwriting. 
" Don't  worry,"  it  says,  like  something  mocking  us. 

Annie  saw  it,  too.  "Go  and  look ! "  she  says,  and  I 
ran  up  the  stairs  and  went  from  room  to  room,  and  in  the 
hall  on  the  sewing-machine  was  a  time-table  open  and 
lying  there  with  the  blue  paper  and  the  little  figures 
staring  up  at  me.  Somehow  it  told  me  as  if  it  was 
screaming  in  a  hoarse  voice. 


CHAPTER  XX 

I  HARDLY  had  grit  enough  in  me  to  go  down  and  face 
Annie.  I  could  see  when  I  met  her  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs  that  she  knew.  She  was  holding  on  to  the  post. 

"She  must  have  gone  on  the  nine-thirty,"  says  she. 
"Can  there  be  any  mistake?"  she  says,  wringing  her 
hands. 

But  I  pointed  to  the  card.  "I  wish  she  was  dead !  " 
I  says.  "It  would  be  better,"  I  says. 

"Hush!"  says  she.  "How  can  you  judge  of  it?" 
she  says.  "Oh,  Jim,"  says  she,  "will  we  ever  see  her 
back  ?  Can't  it  ever  be  the  same  ?  " 

I  must  have  shook  my  head.  I  was  thinking  a  hun 
dred  things — how  to  follow  her,  when  I  knew  we  didn't 
have  any  way  to]  do  it,  and  whether  to  tell  the  Boss, 
when  I  knew  we  must  never  let  anybody  know.  It 
came  to  me  then  that  we  had  nothing  to  do  but  wait  - 
wait  and  lie  to  everybody.  And  in  all  the  talks  we  had 
—my  Annie  and  me — that  was  all  that  was  ever  decided. 
It  was  as  bad  as  them  dreams  that  make  people  scream 
and  throw  off  the  bedclothes  at  night.  Sometimes  Annie 
would  put  down  her  work  in  the  evening  and  go  out  of 
the  room  into  the  kitchen,  and  I'd  find  her  looking  out 
across  the  field  back  of  the  barn  and  wiping  her  eyes. 
And  I  would  sit  sometimes  and  go  back  to  the  beginning, 

262 


JIM  HANDS  263 

and  remember  the  girl  from  the  time  I  first  seen  her, 
when  she  was  no  bigger  than  a  summer  squash,  but  pink 
and  new,  and  trying  within  three  hours  of  the  time  she 
came  to  kick  her  poor  mother  out  of  bed,  and  so  on,  un 
til  I  could  see  that  card  and  them  words,  "  Don't  worry," 
or  maybe  I  could  hear  her  voice  talking  those  things 
that  seemed  to  me  so  crazy  and  desperate  and  wild. 

I  suppose  troubles  never  play  a  solo  except  to  tune 
up.  Most  always  one  thing  after  another  comes  in  until 
there's  a  full  brass  band  of  it.  And  that  October  it  was 
giving  me  plenty  of  concerts. 

Somehow  a  good  many  years  had  rocked  along  before 
the  boys  in  the  factory  thought  they  had  to  have  a 
labor-union.  It  was  one  of  them  necessities  that  every 
body  had  overlooked,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  now  that  I 
look  back  on  it,  I  remember  it  wasn't  anyone  of  us  in  the 
factory  that  discovered  it.  An  organizer  sent  up  by  the 
Central  Union  down  at  the  Capital  was  the  feller.  I 
have  nothing  to  say  against  the  union,  for  I've  worked 
in  places  where  it  was  the  only  thing  that  gave  me  a 
chance  to  sleep  under  blankets  in  the  winter-time. 

It  was  just  the  week  or  two  before  the  girl  left  that 
this  organizer  came.  It  wasn't  two  days  before  he  had 
all  of  the  boys  on  edge  to  get  together  and  elect  officers, 
and  inside  of  two  weeks  he  had  showed  them  all  their 
grievances,  and  they  were  wearing  celluloid  buttons  on 
their  vests  and  had  hired  Masonic  Hall  for  Friday  even 
ings,  so's  they  could  have  hot  shot  from  hot  authors, 


264  JIM  HANDS 

and  plain  talk  from  plain  people.  And  they  had  it,  too ! 
What  they  didn't  know  about  collective  bargaining  and 
closed  shops  and  the  piece  system  was  the  kind  of  knowl 
edge  that  hadn't  been  found  out ! 

That  was  the  funny  part  of  it.  I  joined  the  game,  and 
so  did  every  worker  in  the  factory  —  to  a  man. 

Dave  Kennedy  was  president.  I  guess  you  never  saw 
Dave.  He  was  one  of  those  fellers  with  a  yeller  mus 
tache  and  a  big  blue  eye  that  likes  to  see  his  name  in 
print,  and  had  talked  so  much  in  forty-five  years  that 
he  was  a  regular  artist.  He  used  to  make  more  speeches 
in  one  year  in  this  little  town  than  the  President  of 
the  country  made  all  over  the  United  States.  If  the 
Hawk  Falls  base-ball  team  licked  our  local  team,  after 
we  had  hired  a  college  pitcher  and  thought  we  had  a  sure 
thing,  Dave  would  climb  up  on  a  barrel  and  explain  it  in 
words  of  eight  syllables ;  and  when  the  town  company 
came  back  from  fighting  the  Spaniards  at  Camp  Alger, 
although  the  " Committee  on  Welcome"  purposely 
didn't  invite  Dave  to  the  turkey  supper  in  the  town- 
hall,  you  bet  your  life  Dave  fooled  'em  and  stood  on  a 
barrel  in  front  of  the  station  and  sailed  in,  mouth  and 
fist,  to  tell  the  soldier  lads  what  heroes  they  were, 
while  the  "Committee  on  Welcome"  were  up  to  the  hall 
watching  the  ice-cream  melt.  Dave  was  a  smart, 
bright  feller,  with  a  desire  to  shine,  and  he  took  the  union 
very  serious  and  gave  it  his  best  efforts,  as  they  say  in 
an  obituary. 


JIM   HANDS  265 

All  of  us  took  the  union  serious,  and  some  of  the  men 
were  pretty  hot  about  things.  The  Boss  was  prosperous, 
and  had  a  spanking,  bright  red,  new  automobile,  and  was 
building  a  new  house,  and  a  good  many  of  us  could  tell 
a  good  deal  better  than  he  that  we  were  having  a  hard 
time  to  buy  phonographs.  The  boys  knew  what  it  was 
to  have  wages  trusteed  for  a  grocer's  bill  that  six  hun 
gers  had  run  up,  and  have  to  tell  a  wife  that  Sadie 
couldn't  have  a  new  dress  to  go  to  school  in,  and  have  to 
see  her  sitting  up  with  a  kerosene  lamp  to  turn  Harry's 
old  overcoat  into  little  Eddie's  new  pants.  Then  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  discussion  about  how  the  Boss  made 
his  money,  because  he  wasn't  paying  the  wages  they  paid 
in  the  cities  down  the  State ;  and  I  guess  that  we  forgot 
that  living  expenses  were  cheaper  in  this  town,  and  that 
we  had  steady  jobs  all  the  year  round,  but  that  down  the 
State  they  were  liable  to  be  laid  off  for  six  or  eight 
weeks  at  a  clip.  Then  there  got  to  be  the  feeling  that  the 
Boss  was  an  old  bear  who  was  out  for  his  own  pocket  and 
didn't  care  how  any  of  us  got  along,  anyhow.  He  had  a 
sort  of  sand-bag  voice  when  he  said  no,  and  we'd 
heard  it  when  we  asked  for  higher  pay  for  overtime ;  and 
when  we  asked  for  a  closed  shop,  we  heard  it  with  trim 
mings  on  it.  I  often  thought  since  that  what  really  was 
troubling  me  and  making  me  hot  and  full  of  prejudice 
was  something  different  —  the  trouble  he  and  his  had 
brought  to  me  and  mine.  He  and  I  had  grown  apart,  I 
guess.  In  those  days  we  didn't  trust  each  other  much, 


266  JIM  HANDS 

and  I  was  on  the  committee  that  asked  him  for  a  closed 
shop. 

I  was  spokesman  for  the  committee  that  asked  the 
Boss  for  a  closed  shop,  and  I  started  in  and  told  the  Boss 
fourteen  reasons  that  was  suggested  to  us  by  the  cen 
tral  union  why  an  employer  shouldn't  hire  non-union 
help.  The  old  man  listened  to  me  through,  and  then 
moved  his  desk  chair  back  with  a  mean,  squeaking 
sound.  "No  ! "  says  he.  "There  are  three  reasons  why 
I  won't  —  because  there  isn't  any  use  of  your  labor- 
union  in  this  factory,  anyway;  because  if  I  recognized 
your  union,  I  might  do  something  unfair  to  a  good  man 
who  don't  belong  to  it,  and  the  third  reason  is  just 
no!" 

"Well,"  says  I,  thinking  it  was  up  to  me  to  show  what 
the  union  amounted  to,  "we  have  two  hundred  men 
in  this  factory  behind  us.  Now,  do  I  understand  that 
you  refuse  ?  " 

"Stuff ! "  says  he,  and  that  was  all  the  good  I  got  out 
of  him. 

That  night  we  had  a  meeting  of  the  union,  and  a  dele 
gate  named  Cole  came  up  from  the  Capital  to  advise  us. 
He  and  Dave  and  Terence  Burns  made  speeches,  and 
they  all  said  the  crisis  had  come,  and  banged  on  the 
table  so's  the  water-pitcher  danced.  We  fought  a  good 
deal  about  what  we  had  better  make  the  issue,  and  the 
hall  got  so  hot  three  times  that  they  had  to  open  the  win 
dows,  but  finally  those  who  pointed  out  that  the  wage 


JIM  HANDS  267 

scale  was  lower  than  in  any  other  town  in  the  State 
won  out,  and  we  voted  fifty-seven  to  twenty-eight  to  get 
higher  pay  or  strike.  Then  Dave  said :  "  Gentlemen,  we 
are  now  setting  out  together  on  a  stormy  sea  on  the  cause 
of  labor  and  humanity.  We  cannot  fail,  for  we  have 
embarked  on  a  righteous  cause,  but  we  must  stick  to 
each  other  to  the  end";  or  something  like  that,  and  it 
made  us  feel  kinder  full  and  gulping,  as  if  it  was  so  seri 
ous  we  would  never  see  our  families  or  friends  again. 

The  demand  was  made  on  the  old  man  the  next 
morning  by  the  delegate  who  said  he  would  act  for  us. 
Some  of  us  stood  in  the  packing-room  just  outside  the 
office  door,  we  were  so  anxious  to  see  how  the  trouble 
would  come  out.  The  first  thing  I  heard  was  the  Boss. 

"Who  are  you,  anyhow?"  says  he.  "If  my  men 
have  a  grievance,  why  don't  they  talk  it  out?  They 
know  me  and  I  know  them.  We  are  acquainted  —  we 
are !  But  who  are  you  ?  Why  should  I  talk  to  you  ? 
Why  should  you  ask  to  have  me  pay  higher  wages  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  who  I  am,"  says  the  delegate,  speaking 
up  snappy.  "I'm  Peter  J.  Cole,  from  the  central 
union.  I  guess  you've  heard  of  me,  all  right,  all  right, 
and  the  reason  I  am  asking  you  to  raise  the  wages 
according  to  this  scale  we've  prepared  is  because  I'm 
paid  with  a  salary  of  two  thousand  dollars  per  year  by 
the  different  local  unions  to  do  just  this  thing ! " 

"I  wouldn't  employ  you  at  two  thousand  cents. 
You're  bleeding  the  union  with  that  salary  of  yours 


268  JIM  HANDS 

about  seven  hundred  times  more  than  you're  worth  to 
'em." 

We  could  hear  every  word,  and  we  knew  well  enough 
that  Peter  J.  Cole  wouldn't  stand  for  that.  And  he 
didn't.  He  just  come  back  at  the  Boss  with  a  regular 
pirate's  prayer,  and  then  the  chairs  began  turning  over, 
and  we  were  trying  to  remember  just  how  much  bigger 
Cole  was  than  the  Boss,  when  we  heard  the  front  door 
open  and  something  bumping  down  the  steps.  What 
bumped  was  Cole. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  there  came  word  through  the 
factory  that  the  Boss  wanted  to  see  every  man  and 
woman  in  the  outer  office.  There's  quite  a  lot  of  room 
in  there,  but  a  good  many  of  us  had  to  stand  outside  the 
doors;  Cole  had  gone  up  over  the  hill,  looking  mad 
all  the  way  up  and  down  the  back  of  his  coat,  and  we 
weren't  in  the  mood  for  any  love-feast,  either.  None 
of  us  looked  at  each  other,  but  we  were  sort  of  quiet, 
except  for  the  squeaks  of  boots  where  those  who  were 
way  back  stood  up  on  tiptoe  to  get  a  look  at  the  Boss 
leaning  up  against  a  desk  in  the  farthest  corner.  The 
old  man  didn't  say  anything  for  several  minutes,  but 
shifted  his  eyes  from  one  to  another  of  us  until  I  guess 
he'd  looked  each  one  straight  in  the  face. 

"I  haven't  got  much  to  speak  about,"  says  he  at  last. 
"It's  just  this  —  that  if  any  person  or  persons,  whether 
it's  one  or  all  of  you,  have  any  complaint  to  make  about 
your  employment  here,  you  can  come  to  me,  and  we'll 


JIM  HANDS  269 

talk  it  over.  But  when  a  labor-union,  or  any  of  its 
officers,  come  to  me,  I'm  going  to  be  too  busy  to  talk  or 
consider,  because  there  isn't  any  need  of  a  labor-union  in 
this  factory,  and  when  a  labor-union  gets  a  man  who 
never  worked  for  me  and  never  saw  me  before  to  do  the 
talking,  I'm  going  to  kick  him  down  the  steps.  That's  all." 

Some  of  the  women  up  front  were  looking  kinder 
scared,  and  leaned  up  against  those  back  of  'em,  but 
Dave  Kennedy  took  a  step  forward,  and  I  guess  all  of 
us  moved  forward  with  him  —  just  one  step.  "The 
labor-union  wants  to  know,"  says  Dave,  with  his  voice 
kinder  jiggled,  "whether  you  will  grant  the  proposed 
higher  scale  of  wages,  such  as  are  in  force  in  the  southern 
part  of  the  State." 

The  Boss  smiled  a  little,  and  Dave  stood  up  very  stiff 
and  straight,  with  his  fingers  trembling  along  the  seams 
of  his  overalls.  As  I  said,  the  Boss  smiled  and  he  says : 
"I'm  not  going  to  answer  you  as  president  of  the  union; 
but  as  plain  Dave  Kennedy  I'll  tell  you  that  I'm  not 
going  to  raise  your  wages,  Dave,  because  you're  not 
earning  any  more  than  you're  getting.  My  job  is  to 
make  this  business  a  success  by  keeping  loaded  down 
with  orders  and  shaving  off  a  small  profit  by  running 
this  factory  where  living  is  cheap,  so  labor  will  be 
cheaper,  and  by  paying  wages  and  shipping  goods 
fifty-two  weeks  a  year.  If  I  sweetened  the  pay-roll, 
there  wouldn't  be  any  excuse  for  running  at  all.  That's 
all  there  is  to  it." 


270  JIM  HANDS 

Dave  wheeled  around,  turning  his  back  on  the  Boss 
and  facing  us,  and  he  threw  one  hand  up  in  the  air  like 
an  actor,  and  says  in  a  firm  voice, ' '  Strike  ! "  And  some 
body  else  says,  "  Strike  ! "  under  his  breath  —  like  that, 
until  most  of  us  had  said,  "Strike  ! "  backing  away  out  of 
the  room,  leaving  the  Boss  all  alone,  standing  in  front  of 
the  desk,  looking  at  the  floor. 

It  was  most  noon,  and  the  day  before  had  been  pay 
day,  so  we  quit  right  there  —  all  of  us  except  eighteen 
Poles  who  couldn't  speak  English,  and  didn't  know 
what  was  doing,  and  four  Canucks  who  were  getting 
higher  pay  than  they  ever  had  hoped  for.  Everybody 
was  excited,  and  wanted  to  use  the  soap  in  the  wash 
rooms  first,  and  talked  about  how  it  would  be  a  fight  to 
the  bitter  end,  and  went  down  the  stairs  jawing  and 
forgetting  to  fill  up  their  pipes,  the  way  they  generally 
did  at  noon  hour.  When  you'd  see  the  men  crowding 
out  the  doors  of  the  rooms,  pulling  on  their  coats,  and 
behind  them  the  empty  spaces  with  long  rows  of  ma 
chines  all  dead  and  quiet  except  for  the  shafting,  which 
was  still  running,  it  seemed  sort  of  like  a  scene  in  a  play 
that  makes  you  lean  forward  and  keeps  you  there,  even 
though  your  collar  cuts  into  your  neck.  And  I  can  re 
member  how  my  Annie  met  me  at  the  door,  wiping  her 
hands  on  her  apron,  and  asked  whether  it  was  true  the 
men  had  gone  out,  and  I  said, "  Yes,"  and  how  she  looked 
at  me  and  says,  "Ain't  it  dreadful,  Jim?  These  are 
evil  times  for  us,  dear ! " 


JIM  HANDS  271 

The  next  few  days  it  was  kinder  pleasant  to  be  strik 
ing,  because,  for  one  thing,  it  was  the  most  exciting 
business  that  had  ever  happened  in  town,  and  being  a 
striker  made  the  fellers  feel  sort  of  important  and  anxious 
to  see  what  the  big  dailies  down  the  State  were  saying 
about  'em.  And  then,  again,  if  it  was  a  cold  morning 
with  one  of  those  slashing  winds  blowing  down  the  valley, 
you  didn't  have  to  jump  out  of  bed  at  half-past  six, 
but  could  lie  there  and  think  of  your  breakfast,  and  how 
you  could  sit  in  the  sunlight  at  the  south  window  in  the 
kitchen,  and  fool  with  the  kids,  and  how,  later,  you  could 
walk  down  into  the  town,  and  watch  the  boys  play  pool 
in  the  back  of  the  barber  shop  and  talk  about  how 
we'd  make  the  Boss  come  to  terms. 

The  Boss  used  to  go  down  to  the  factory  every  day, 
and  he  had  the  Canucks  and  Poles  pack  up  the  finished 
goods — there  weren't  more  than  twelve  cases — and  cart 
'em  to  the  station,  while  everybody  who  saw  'em  would 
hoot  and  yell  at  ;em,  and  the  boys  would  throw  handfuls 
of  mud  at  the  team  and  make  it  splash  up  against  the 
white  sides  of  the  boxes.  They  hooted  at  the  Boss,  too, 
but  he  would  just  look  kinder  solemn,  and  go  on  down  to 
the  office,  and  you  could  see  him  dictating  letters  to  the 
stenographer,  and  it  kinder  made  a  feller  feel  sorry  for 
him  to  see  how  the  windows  were  getting  all  dusty, 
and  there  was  no  water  running  through  the  penstock, 
and  everything  was  going  to  thunder.  And  then  I'd 
think  of  how  he  had  taken  my  girl  away,  and  I'd  feel 


272  JIM  HANDS 

a  good  deal  hotter,  and  grin  when  some  other  union 
man  would  let  out  a  few  curses,  and  say  he'd  like  to 
chuck  a  rock  through  the  front  door. 

Everybody  expected  the  Boss  would  cave  in  pretty 
quick  when  we  put  him  right  up  against  it,  but  after 
five  days  he  hadn't  showed  any  signs  of  it,  and  it  kept 
a  feller  uneasy,  because  there  weren't  going  to  be  a  pay 
envelope,  and  although  the  tradespeople  in  town  were 
giving  us  what  support  they  could,  of  course  they 
couldn't  run  their  business  on  nothing.  After  a  week 
there  was  a  good  deal  more  coffee  than  steak  on  the  table. 
Some  of  the  boys  were  driven  pretty  hard.  About 
twenty  men  slid  out  of  town  during  the  next  ten  days 
to  look  for  jobs  somewhere  else,  but  every  one  of  those 
were  young  fellers  who  weren't  married,  and  didn't  have 
a  house  here  with  a  vegetable  patch  in  the  back  yard, 
and  furniture  bought  on  the  instalment  plan  and  almost 
paid  for. 

Being  a  striker  weren't  any  fun  the  second  week,  when 
you  had  to  toss  up  a  nickel  to  see  whether  you'd  spend  it 
on  a  plug  of  tobacco  for  yourself  or  a  pound  of  sugar  for 
the  house.  It  made  the  men  feel  hot  and  bad-hearted 
to  think  the  Boss  was  trying  to  drive  us  to  the  wall  and 
kinder  starve  us  back  to  work  —  it  made  me  fill  up  clean 
full  of  feelings  that  would  make  me  speak  cross  to  the 
kids  and  slam  the  front  door  hard  when  I  came  in  or 
went  out,  and  got  me  to  feeling  sour  until  I  knew  I'd 
make  the  Boss  sweat  and  go  to  the  ropes  before  I'd 
ever  give  in.  Some  of  the  men  got  drunk,  and  maybe 


JIM  HANDS  273 

you'd  see  a  feller  whooping  it  along  Main  Street  at  noon, 
cursing  at  everybody  and  people  cursing  at  him,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  everybody  who  got  to  hating  the  Boss 
got  to  hating  each  other,  too. 

Somehow  it  seemed  that  I  was  picked  to  learn  the 
whole  story  about  discontent  in  those  days  after  Kathe- 
rine  had  gone,  and  when  every  hour  we  didn't  hear  from 
her  seemed  longer  than  the  last,  and  the  strike  had  made 
me  idle,  with  nothing  to  do  but  get  sullen,  like  a  machine 
that  ain't  used  and  rusts  and  goes  out  of  gear. 

But  I  suppose  it  was  because  we've  got  that  un 
finished  attic  over  the  kitchen  that  I  learned  the  last 
lesson  I  need  about  envy  and  hate  and  ill-will.  Annie 
thought  we  ought  to  rent  it,  being  the  strike  was  going 
on,  and  we  had  to  begin  to  use  the  money  she  had  laid 
away  in  the  bank. 

"  A  nice  time  you'll  have  renting  it,  "I  says,  "and  avery 
exciting  time  collecting  any  rent  in  these  days,"  I  says. 

" There  are  some  new  men  at  the  mirror  factory," 
she  says. 

"They  are  Poles  and  the  like  of  them,"  I  says. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  says,  "they  are  human  beings,"  she 
says,  "with  the  same  stomach-aches  and  vanity  as  the 
rest  of  us,"  she  says.  "I  intend  to  ask.  A  dollar  is 
rounder  now  than  a  few  weeks  ago,"  she  says.  "I  may 
have  luck  in  getting  some  man  who  is  agreeable,"  she 
says.  I  have  to  laugh  now  when  I  think  of  her  words,  for 
she  drew  a  strange  prize. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

WE  called  him  Pete  Sotus.  He  was  a  Russian,  I  used 
to  think,  and  that  weren't  his  name.  But  the  nearest  I 
ever  come  to  it  is  just  Pete  Sotus. 

He  was  the  kind  you  remember  —  a  young  feller,  too, 
six  feet  four,  and  shoulders  like  a  beef  and  muscles  like 
an  ox.  There's  some  kinds  of  people  built  like  carriage 
horses  and  some  like  racing  ponies,  fine  and  limber, 

—  and  some  are  built  to  pull,  like  Pete  Sotus  —  a  dray- 
horse  of  a  man.    They'd  bred  him  to  it.     It  was  in 
his  blood.    There  was  veins  red  and  swollen  in  his  bulgy 
forehead    that    showed    the    work    he'd    done.    They 
showed  the  work  his  great-grandfather  had  done,  too. 
His  shoulders  were  stooped  and  his  hair  was  bleached  out 
by  the  sun  and  his  eyes  were  stupid!     'Twas    the 
hardest  kind  of  work  for  that  feller  to  think,  and  he 
was  always  at  it ;   and  when  he  thought  it  weren't  cool, 
like  a  machine  that's  oiled,  but  it  was  hot,  and  every 
time  he'd  get  to  thinking,  the  muscles  would  stand  out  all 
over  his  jaw,  as  if  it  hurt  him ! 

He  had  come  from  somewhere  down  the  State  to 
get  a  job  in  our  town.  He  needed  the  work  all  right 

—  from  his   looks.     I  saw  him   first   at  the  station. 
He  didn't  have  a  collar.     His  neck  looked  so  big  it 

274 


JIM  HANDS  275 

seemed  as  if  no  collar  would  fit  it.  I  found  out  later 
he  had  lived  on  hot  coffee  longer  than  a  body  of  his 
size  ought  to  stick  to  that  kind  of  nourishment. 

He  got  a  job  at  the  mirror  factory  and  then  he 
came  looking  for  rooms.  Annie  took  him  in  —  that's 
her  way. 

"He'll  rock  the  floors  till  the  ceiling  is  down,"  says 
I.  "  Listen  !  "  I  says.  "  There  is  a  pile  driver  up 
stairs,"  I  says,  hearing  him  walking  above  us. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  Annie,  philosophizing  the  way  she 
docs.  "  It's  better  than  having  some  skinny  little 
sawed-off  man  that  slips  his  feet  along  the  floor  like  a 
cat,"  she  says.  "  I  must  say  I  have  a  great  distrust 
of  noiseless  men,"  she  says.  "Go  and  say  a  cheerful 
word  to  him,"  she  says.  So  I  went  out 'to  the  front 
room  and  nodded  to  him  to  come  in. 

"You're  taking  life  hard,  Swanson,"  says  I,  thinking 
he  was  a  Swede,  and  meaning  to  jolly  him  a  bit. 

"I  haf  more  work  to  do  dan  dis,"  says  he,  tying  knots 
in  his  words  and  talking  like  them  foreigners  go  on. 
And  he  put  one  of  his  hands —  as  big  as  the  two  of  mine, 
and  every  finger  the  size  of  a  child's  arm  —  on  my 
shoulder  and  says,  "There  ain't  no  rest  for  us  till  ve  is 
all  free,"  he  says. 

"Free  of  what?"  I  says. 

"Listen,"  says  he,  "you  belief  in  der  brodderhood  of 
mans,  eh  ?  By  Gott,  der  day  of  light  is  come  —  the 
time  ven  ve  should  haf  equvalities.  You  is  a  stranger 


276  JIM  HANDS 

to  me,  but  der  is  dor  broddcrhood  of  work  between  us. 
I  see  it  in  dese  hands  of  yours ;  look  at  mine,  eh  ?  Dey 
is  hard,  eh  ?  Vat  is  it  what  makes  us  to  vork  —  always 
to  vork  ?  It  is  der  slafery  of  der  existing  order  of  dings  ?  " 
he  says,  and,  anyhow,  it  was  something  like  that ;  I've 
heard  them  fellers  go  on  so  much  I  know  it  backwards. 

So  I  says, "  When  did  you  hear  of  this  railroad 
wreck  ?  "  and  laughed. 

"Brodder,"  he  says,  "  belief  me,  I  vould  gif  my  life  to 
make  some  men  vid  riches  gif  back  to  some  different 
men  —  vat  is  slaves  dat  makes  vork  and  labor  vid  der 
blind  hands  —  to  gif  to  dese  vat  Gott  haf  given  to  us  in 
der  first  place,"  he  says,  and  his  eyes  went  a-swimming 
like  they  was  running  tears,  and  his  forehead  was  in 
bunches  where  it  hurt  him  to  think.  But  the  feller 
meant  what  he  said ! 

And  he  says,  "Vat  difference  makes  it  about  me? 
I  am  nobody  —  I  haf  left  my  vife  and  house  vat  is  in  der 
country  down  der  State  ver  der  rent  I  pay  is  eat  all  der 
vork  I  do  vid  my  hands.  Vat  of  it  ?  I  ask.  No,  I  haf 
gif  my  life  to  der  making  of  equvality.  And  if  ve  don't 
haf  it  van  vay,"  he  says,  shutting  his  paws  into  a  fist,  "  ve 
must  make  it  to  come,"  he  says. 

Then  he  points  out  the  window,  and  there  was  the  Boss 
going  by  in  his  shiny  automobile.  "Look,"  he  says,  "see 
dis  man  vat  is.  He  makes  a  ride  in  vat  makes  to  him 
a  big  cost ;  dis  cost  is  more  dan  vould  buy  me  a  place 
to  live  vid  for  all  der  life,"  he  says,  and  he  got  red  in  the 


JIM  HANDS  277 

face,  and  I  thought  his  yellow  hair  would  get  red,  too. 
And  he  says,  "I  hate  dis  man.  Der  light  is  broke  on 
der  vorld,  and  I  haf  lef  my  vife  and  everytink.  Yah,  I 
vould  gif  my  life  for  der  equ vality .  Till  dis  spring  vas  I  a 
fool.  I  did  not  know,"  he  says,  and  handed  me  a  worn- 
out  old  printed  newspaper.  I  remember  it  well.  'Twas 
called  the  Light  of  Man.  And  he  says,  "Please  to 
look.  Dis  is  it  —  wroted  by  der  Mister  Blacksong. 
Read,  please." 

' '  Who  is  this  Blacksong  ?  "  I  says. 

And  then  he  explained  to  me  that  Blacksong  was  an 
anarchist  or  socialist  or  the  like  of  that,  whatever  it 
was,  who  held  meetings  down  at  the  Capital  in  the  room 
of  some  Pole  who  was  the  janitor  of  one  of  them  red 
burlap  tenements. 

And  Pete  Sotus  came  to  room  with  us.  Annie  bought 
a  second-hand  cot  from  Mrs.  Riordan,  who  was  out  of 
business  because  of  the  strike,  and  put  in  a  day's  Work 
cleaning  it  with  gasolene  and  other  poison,  and  Pete  was 
such  a  big  bruiser  that  she  had  to  put  a  chair  at  the 
bottom  of  it  to  hold  his  feet.  It  wasn't  bad  to  have 
him.  He'd  work  all  day,  and  at  night  he'd  be  out 
walking  and  thinking  and  bending  his  face.  He  was 
quiet  enough,  but  it  was  like  a  funeral  to  see  him  sitting 
around  with  that  scowl.  You  could  see  without  asking 
he  was  hating  the  rich  and  all  that  kind  of  business. 

Yes,  sometimes  he'd  walk  up  and  down  in  the  kitchen 
with  his  stupid  eyes  a-shining  and  his  big  hands  out  like 


278  JIM  HANDS 

he  was  seeing  a  picture  full  of  angels  and  them  things. 
And  then  again  maybe  he'd  throw  his  hulk  of  a  body  into 
one  of  the  wooden  chairs  and  look  down  into  the  empty 
coal-hod,  and  grind  his  teeth  together  and  rub  his  red 
forehead  with  his  fingers.  I've  known  lots  of  laborers 
in  my  time,  but  I  never  knew  a  feller  to  have  a  doctrine 
worse. 

He'd  talk,  too.  "Mr.  Jim/'  he'd  say,  "vonce  vas  I  an 
animal.  Vas  it  fault  from  me  ?  No !  Look  at  dese 
arms,"  he'd  say,  and  pull  his  shirt  back  so's  you  could 
see  his  wrists,  as  round  and  hard  as  a  die  mallet,  and 
covered  with  yeller  hair,  like  a  peroxide  gorilla.  ' '  Yah," 
he'd  say,  "my  fadder  vas  like  it,  and  his  fadder  vas  like 
it.  Animals !  Vy  ?  Gott  in  he  fen  know  it  vas  by 
reason  dat  all  of  us  liffed  under  der  slafery.  Ve  should 
be  men,  not  animals.  Der  rights  should  come  vid  us, 
and  ve  should  haf  der  equvality  and  men  be.  So  vill  it 
come  now." 

And  the  poor  devil  thought  so.  He  felt  so  bad 
about  it  he'd  sit  there  and  look  into  the  coal-hod 
and  then  perhaps  jump  up  and  be  off,  knocking 
over  the  mops  and  things  that  used  to  stand  in  the 
hall. 

My  Annie  didn't  laugh  at  him,  like  me.  "Poor  feller," 
she'd  say.  "He  don't  get  a  happy  moment,  and  he'd 
lay  down  and  die  for  his  foolishness,  and  that's  some 
thing  you  oughter  not  forget,  Jim." 

And  I  remember  one  night  when  Pete  come  home 


JIM  HANDS  279 

with  a  sheet  of  paper  and  poetry  written  on  it.  He 
was  that  excited  he  hadn't  had  no  supper,  and  sick- 
looking,  big  as  he  was — and  crazy  to  read  us  this  rhyme 
business  that  Blacksong  had  sent  him.  Annie  was 
washing  up  the  dishes  over  the  sink,  and  there  was  a 
rattle  of  'em  and  so  on.  But  she  stopped  and  says, 
"Let  him  alone,  Jim;  let  him  read  it  to  you." 

"  PI  ease  listen  by  dis,"  he  says.  And  he  puts  his 
thick  finger  on  the  words  and  begun  to  spell  'em  out. 
"Der  Man  vid  a  Hoe,"  he  says.  I  remember  it  well, 
he  read  it  so  slow.  It  seems  like  this  —  the  poetry  told 
about  a  feller  who'd  been  bred  up  to  work  like  a  son  of 
a  gun  —  a  feller  who  was  a  farm-hand.  And  he  was 
something  like  this  Pete  Sotus  —  didn't  know  nothing, 
except  how  to  dig  and  the  like  of  that,  and  was  kinder 
like  an  animal,  just  as  Pete  had  said,  and  didn't  have  no 
chance  nor  nothing  —  like  a  truck-horse.  It  kinder 
made  you  think,  with  this  foreign  feller  reading  it  aloud 
so  slow,  and  running  his  finger  along  kinder  trembling 
on  the  paper,  like  he  was  reading  a  letter  that  said  some 
body  was  dead. 

And  when  it  was  finished,  Annie  she  looked  at  me  and 
plucked  at  her  apron,  and  Pete  Sotus  threw  his  big  body 
over  on  the  table  and  puts  his  head  down  in  his  arms 
and  says,  "I  vas  it.  I  vas  a  man  vid  a  hoe."  And 
you'd  think  the  honest  work  he'd  done  would  like  to 
break  his  heart.  It  made  me  think  some  then.  I 
thought  about  it  right  heavy  till  I  went  to  bed,  and  then 


280  JIM  HANDS 

I  remember,  as  I  was  hanging  my  coat  over  a  chair,  I 
says  to  my  Annie,  "  Are  you  awake  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  says. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  that  work  business,  and  it 
seems  as  if  there  weren't  a  fair  show  for  everybody." 

"Of  course  there  ain't,"  she  says,  "but,  Jim,  it  can't 
be  had  in  a  minute.  Them  poems  is  all  right,  but  'tis  a 
shame  to  let  anybody  read  'em  who  will  be  worse  off  for 
it  and  not  better.  Pete  was  happy  till  somebody  began 
telling  him  he  weren't.  And  he  had  a  wife  and  a  place 
and  enough  to  eat,  and  if  he  didn't  get  very  far,  perhaps 
his  kids  would  —  what  ?  " 

And  she  kinder  smiled,  sadlike,  and  says:  "I'm  sorry 
for  the  woman,  Jim;  for  perhaps  she  wras  plenty  con 
tented,  just  with  him  —  like  me,"  she  says,  "  as  we 
used  to  be."  So  I  began  to  wonder  then  about  her,— 
the  woman,  —  and  whether  she  was  back  on  the  little 
truck-farm,  and  how  she  was  getting  on  by  herself,  and 
so  on.  And  the  next  day,  when  Pete  Sotus  was  hating 
the  rich  with  his  bulgy  forehead,  I  spoke  to  him  about  it. 

"Where's  your  wife,  Pete  ?  "  says  I.  "Why  don't  you 
send  for  her  ?  " 

He  kinder  waked  up,  smiling  for  a  second,  like  he  was 
going  to  say  something  nice  about  her,  and  then  there 
he  stood,  the  big  hunk  of  sco\vls  and  misery  and  hate 
again.  "Poof !  "  says  he,  just  like  a  potato  busting  its 
skin.  "She  don't  know  it  —  der  equvality.  Vas  is 
she  know  of  der  brodderhood  of  mans?  She  vill  not 


JIM  HANDS  281 

listen  to  der  light.  She  is  happy  vid  slafery  —  like 
vonce  vas  I.  By  Gott  —  no  !  In  der  social  organisms, 
vat  is  she  ?  Vat  am  I  ?  Poof !  It  is  to  me  to  vork  and 
der  vages  save  to  go  vid  Chicago  and  spread  der  vord  of 
Mister  Blacksong.  Me?  I  will  be  an  apostle.  A  vife 
is  nodding.  You  and  I  is  noddings.  Der  doctrines  is 
everytink." 

"She  may  starve,"  says  I;  "and  if  she  does,  I'll  fill 
your  face  with  this  fist  full  of  fingers,"  I  says,  "you  big 
fool,"  I  says. 

"Starve?  "  he  says.  "So  vill  I.  Vat  is  der  differ 
ence  ?  I  starve  der  to-day  ven  for  der  light  and  brodder- 
hood  of  mans  goes  it  to-morrow.  It  vas  like  dis  vid 
me,"  he  says,  "I  vas  bring  der  load  of  celery  into 
der  wholesale  houses.  Say  a  man  vat  is  friend  to 
Mister  Blacksong,  'Come  vid  me  to  der  meetings!' 
So  vas  I  made  der  light  to  see.  Gott !  Equavlity ! 
Happiness  for  all  mans!  It  is  der  same  vedder  I 
starve  or  not ! "  he  says,  just  like  that. 

And  he  went  on  talking  about  right  to  so  many  acres 
of  land,  and  telling  how  this  Blacksong  feller  had  come 
out  to  see  him  on  his  little  truck-farm,  and  told  him  what 
rights  had  been  handed  down  to  him  because  he  was  a 
man,  and  not  a  horse;  and  how  Blacksong  was  in  the 
business  of  the  brotherhood  of  man  for  the  good  of  all 
the  people  alive  or  that  would  be  alive.  And  he  told 
how  he  woke  up  to  the  light,  as  he  called  it,  and  didn't 
go  out  and  dig  cabbages,  but  chewed  the  rag  back  and 


282  JIM  HANDS 

forth  with  his  wife  for  a  good  many  days.  And  it 
seemed  that  Blacksong  thought  it  was  no  use  to  try  to 
make  her  see  —  she  was  that  stubborn ;  and  it  seemed 
that  by  and  by  Blacksong  tells  Pete  to  give  his  life  to 
the  cause  and  learn  to  preach,  and  all  like  that.  And 
Pete  came  away. 

It  was  all  this  Blacksong  feller's  scheme,  and  let  me 
tell  you,  Blacksong  was  all  right !  He  was  an  educated 
feller,  and  could  repeat  words  from  books  he'd  read, 
and  he'd  written  some  himself,  too,  Pete  said.  Seemed 
he'd  gone  and  lived  with  the  coal-miners,  or  something. 
Yes,  he  was  smart,  I  guess,  and  he  had  plenty  to  eat,  all 
right.  He  had  money  enough  to  buy  meals  in  one  of 
them  cheap  wine  restaurants.  I  guess  he  was  different 
from  Pete  Sotus.  I  guess  he  didn't  have  to  go  hungry 
and  leave  his  wife,  if  he  had  one,  to  be  whatever  he  was ; 
he  didn't  look  to  me  like  a  man  who'd  suffered  very  much 
for  his  doctrines  and  propaganda,  as  they  called  'em. 

He  was  a  healthy  loafer,  making  a  living  out  of  telling 
people  what  he  knew.  Pete  had  his  picture.  He  wore 
long  hair,  like  one  of  these  imitation  football  players,  and 
a  big  black  necktie,  like  a  woman's,  and  he  used  to  tell 
Pete  he  was  glad  he  come  from  common  people.  His 
face  looked  it !  But  I  found  out  since  that  his  father 
owned  a  soap  factory  in  Brusselsville,  Indiana ;  and  they 
tell  me  this  great  Blacksong  afterward  lost  all  the  money 
he'd  made  writing  for  the  magazines  by  getting  an 
inside  tip  of  the  stock  of  a  pineapple  farm. 


JIM  HANDS  283 

It's  funny,  too,  but  I  kinder  believe  he  thought  he 
was  real  goods  himself.  He  meant  what  he  said,  and  I 
guess  he  thought  he'd  done  Pete  Sotus  a  good  turn  and 
made  a  man  out  of  an  animal,  and  he  wanted  to  have  it 
get  into  the  papers,  and  he  preached  so  much  about  the 
brotherhood  of  man  that  he  made  Pete  hate  every 
body. 

And  I  guess  Pete  got  to  hating  himself.  I  never  seen 
so  miserable  a  feller.  Couldn't  sleep  nights,  and  kept 
us  awake  walking  up  and  down  his  little  room,  and 
he'd  go  to  work  next  morning  black  under  the  eyes,  like 
he  was  one  of  these  rich  boys  and  not  a  two-fifty-pound 
laborer  with  a  chest  as  big  as  a  horse's  and  an  appetite. 

Pete  was  getting  worse  and  more  miserable  all  the 
time.  And  one  night  he  stayed  up  in  the  kitchen  till 
daylight  come,  trying  to  write  something  on  the  back 
of  a  time  slip,  and  burning  up  ten  cents'  worth  of  oil. 
My  girl  Annie  thought  he  was  trying  to  write  to  his  wife. 
But  it  was  no  go.  He  could  read  if  he  took  time  to  it, 
but  there  weren't  any  penmanship,  or  whatever  they 
call  it,  belonging  to  them  big  bologny  fingers ! 

"He'd  better  go  back  to  her,"  says  Annie  to  me, 
"or  he'll  get  so  unhappy  he'll  kill  somebody  —  himself, 
maybe.  And  ain't  it  awful  to  see  the  misery  on  such  a 
stupid  face  ?  "  she  says. 

"  He'll  not  go  back  to  her  for  any  talking  I  can  do  now," 
I  says.  "Maybe  you  don't  know  it,"  I  says,  "but  this 
Blacksong  feller  has  been  in  town  two  days  already, 


"284  JIM  HANDS 

talking  his  ideas  to  the  Canucks  and  Poles/'  I  says. 
"And,"  I  saysr  "I'm  not  sure  I  wouldn't  agree  with 
some  of  'em/'  I  says.  "Damn  the  Boss/'  I  says. 

But  she  stopped  me  with  a  move  of  her  hand,  and  I 
went  off  wondering,  and  not  knowing  how  sudden  we 
were  going  to  lose  our  lodger. 

That  Monday  evening  Annie  was  sewing,  and  I  was 
reading  in  the  parlor,  when  we  heard  steps  outside. 
You'd  thought  it  was  Pete  himself,  big  and  clumsy. 

"Poor  feller,"  says  Annie.  But  it  weren't  him! 
No,  it  was  a  woman.  It  was  his  wife.  We  knew  it  the 
minute  we  seen  her.  She  was  near  as  big  as  him,  and 
wore  men's  shoes  and  had  a  blue  dress  made  out  of 
overall  cloth  and  big  red  wrists  sticking  out,  and  working 
the  farm  in  the  sun  had  made  her  red  all  over  her  face, 
and  she  wore  an  apron  like  them  dago  women  when  they 
go  anywhere,  just  the  way  anybody  else  would  put  on  a 
hat.  She  was  so  big  she  looked  like  a  man. 

But  my  Annie  knew.  All  women  know  each  other: 
And  she  says,  says  she,  "For  the  love  of  Heaven,  sit- 
down,  you  poor  thing !  "  like  that.  It  was  just  as  if  this 
other  woman,  with  her  flat,  stupid  face,  had  told  her 
the  whole  story  about  how  she'd  worked  the  farm  alone 
and  been  lonely  and  followed  Blacksong  up  to  one  town 
because  she  thought  she'd  find  her  man,  and  tramped 
around  till  she'd  found  where  Pete  worked  and  where 
he  lived,  and  how  tired  she  was  and  all  that.  And  there 
she  sat  staring  around  with  her  big  blue  eyes. 


JIM  HANDS  285 

There  was  an  awful  lot  of  difference  between  my  wife 
there  and  his.  But  Annie  —  well,  she's  a  woman,  and 
she  put  her  arms  around  this  foreigner  and  touched  her 
on  the  hair,  see?  And  I  forgot  to  say  you  never  seen 
such  hair !  Kind  of  gold  hair  it  was,  and  it  was  worth 
looking  at.  There  weren't  no  bonnet  over  it.  And 
before  she'd  said  a  word,  she  looked  up  at  my  Annie 
like  a  half-frozen  dog  when  you  let  it  into  the  house. 
And  I  guess  she  knew  more  about  the  sisterhood  of 
women  right  then  than  Blacksong  ever  preached  to 
Pete  about  the  brotherhood  of  man.  Annie  she  stood 
beside  this  big  freight-handler  of  a  woman  and  I  sat 
across  the  table  and  waited  for  her  to  tell  it. 

"I  vant  my  mans,"  says  she,  by  and  by.  "I  vant  my 
mans." 

"He  lives  here,"  says  Annie,  "but  he's  out."  And 
with  that  she  looked  at  the  clock  and  says,  "But  don't 
you  worry;  he'll  be  back." 

Well,  it  took  this  foreigner  woman  near  as  long  as  it 
takes  to  boil  an  egg  to  get  this  into  her  head,  but  then 
you  could  see  it  was  a  comfort  to  her  to  know  she'd 
made  home  plate.  I  could  see  she  was  thinking  again, 
and  when  she  bust  out  talking  it  was  worse  than  Pete 
ever  thought  of.  He  couldn't  have  done  so  bad  if  he 
tried,  and  if  we  all  had  to  talk  English  like  hers  we'd  go 
back  to  the  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet. 

And  she  didn't  hold  none  of  her  business  back.  "I 
vant  my  mans,"  she  says,  as  she  starts  off.  "  Ve  to  this 


286  JIM  HANDS 

country  came  by  four  years  vat  is."  Her  talk  was  some 
thing  like  that.  And  she  says,  pulling  her  big  red  fingers, 
"To  him  by  vife  made  and  lif  in  small  place  and  there 
is  vat  is  digging  and  make  grow  vat  is  cabbages,  celery, 
and  such.  Dis  is  your  vife,"  she  says  to  me,  pointing 
to  Annie.  "Yes  —  to  you  both  vill  I  speak.  A  man 
vat  is  has  come  to  see  my  man  and  tell  it  to  him  many 
things  vat  is." 

"Blacksong?"  says  I,  and  she  hoisted  up  her  round, 
thick  head  and  give  me  a  nod. 

"And,  ah,  Gott ! "  she  says,  looking  into  the  light  of 
the  lamp,  and  enough  to  make  a  sweatshop  foreman  sorry 
for  her.  "Oh,  Gott,"  she  says,  "it  has  without  him 
much  unhappy  been." 

Annie  kinder  looked  at  the  floor,  and  I  says,  for  vant 
of  better,  says  I,  "He'll  be  in  presently." 

She  didn't  seem  to  hear  me  none.  Just  like  somebody 
asleep,  and  she  shut  her  eyes  just  like  she  was  down  and 
out. 

"Ve  vas  happy  by  dese  times  vat  was,"  says  she, 
and  she  put  her  arms  down  on  the  table  and  her  head 
went  down  after  'em,  and  there  she  lay  with  the  light 
on  that  hair  of  hers.  Not  crying  —  see  —  just  DONE  — 
a  big,  thick-headed  foreigner  woman  that  didn't  know 
nothing ! 

"Let  her  be,"  says  Annie,  and  I  nodded,  and  we  sat 
down  and  waited  for  Pete  to  come  home  from  his  meet 
ing. 


JIM  HANDS  287 

I  guess  it  must  have  been  near  to  eleven  o'clock  when 
we  heard  him  on  the  walk.  And  he  had  Blacksong  with 
him  —  the  feller  he  called  his  only  friend  on  earth. 

And  they  was  talking  as  they  come  up,  and  the 
foreigner  woman  woke  up.  She'd  heard  his  voice,  see  ? 
And  she  sits  up  straight  and  smooths  down  her  apron  and 
says,  "My  man ! "  like  that,  sorter  proud.  Yes,  proud ! 

It  was  a  surprise  to  him  all  right  when  he  opened  the 
door  and  seen  her.  Blacksong,  —  and  I  remember  now 
his  first  name  was  Edgar,  —  he  kinder  started  guessing 
himself.  Pete  just  stood  looking  and  looking  back  to  his 
wife,  and  took  his  hat  off  and  pulled  his  yellow  hair 
with  his  fingers ;  but  the  other  feller  fixed  up  his  big 
bow  necktie  and  says,  "You,  sister?"  And  opened 
his  white  hands  forward  —  like  this,  see  ? 

Why,  she  never  paid  no  attention  to  him !  No,  sir ! 
She  just  looked  at  Pete  and  got  up,  and  her  big  red  hands 
hung  down  at  her  side,  and  she  kinder  caught  her  breath 
and  then  tried  again.  I  was  kinder  afraid  she'd  talk  her 
foreign  lingo,  but  she  didn't. 

"Der  dog  is  dead,"  she  says,  "vich  bad  is.  But  der 
is  many  shickens." 

Pete,  he  still  give  her  his  stupid  stare. 

"I  make  der  plenty  celery  to  grow  vid  vork,"  she 
says. 

"Vid  vork?"    says  he,  kinder  like  it  was  a  dream. 

"Please  make  der  listen,"  says  she.  "I  haf  pay  der 
rent." 


288  JIM  HANDS 

With  that  I  seen  Blacksong  give  a  sniff  and  look  at 
Pete,  but  the  foreigner  just  stared  and  stared,  and 
finally  he  says,  looking  at  her,  "Vat  is  it  you  vant?  " 

"I  vant  you  —  vid  me  to  go,"  she  says. 

"And  give  up  the  cause,  brother?  ;;'  puts  in  the 
equality  feller,  "and  be  an  animal  —  the  man  with  the 
hoe  ?  "  he  says,  paying  no  more  attention  to  Annie  and 
me  than  if  we  was  chairs. 

"Please  do  not  telled  it  like  that  vonce  more,"  says 
she,  turning  to  Blacksong.  "No,  please,  I  vant  my 
man.  By  and  by,  vcn  der  little  ones  come  has,  vant  I 
him."  You'd  thought  she  was  asking  the  feller  to  give 
her  back  a  handful  of  nickels  or  something. 

And  Pete  got  red  and  bulgy  on  the  forehead  and 
looked  at  me  and  Annie,  and  we  never  says  a  word. 

"Mister  Blacksong  —  please,"  says  the  woman.  "You 
haf  not  good  made.  Ven  my  man  vas  happy  and  made 
it  not  to  hate  nobody,  and  ven  everybody  and  every 
little  thing,  like  der  dog  vas  is  dead,  vas  by  him  love 
gave.  Please,  Mister  Blacksong,  I  tell  it  to  you.  Me 
he  loved  also." 

She  kinder  looked  at  the  floor  and  then  looked  up 
again.  Pete,  he  was  redder  than  ever,  trying  to  figure 
out  something,  and  he  says,  as  if  he  was  thinking, 
"Equvality !  Der  animals  vat  I  was." 

"Exactly,"  says  Blacksong,  kinder  frightened. 

"And  der  rent  is  payid.  Please  come  back,  and 
happiness  be  —  like  it  vas  before,"  says  the  woman. 


JIM  HANDS  289 

"Please,  Mister  Blacksong,  to  him  no  more  tell  it. 
He  loves  little  things,  and  dis  is  better  than  is  it  to 
make  no  love  for  nothing/'  she  says. 

Well,  you'd  thought  she'd  struck  Pete  with  a  welting- 
needle !  He  kinder  stiffened  up,  and  I  remember  the 
stare  went  out  of  his  eyes,  and  Annie  give  a  little  cry, 
being  a  woman  and  afraid. 

"Mister  Blacksong,"  says  Pete,  very  quiet  in  his 
voice  and  with  his  big  shoulders  rolling.  "For  you  I 
from  dis  voman  avay  vent.  I  haf  made  it  hungry, 
and  I  haf  been  exactly  sadness.  Der  truth  is  it  vat  you 
haf  made  me  to  learn,  perhaps.  By  Gott,  I  vas  happy ! 
I  loved  every  little  fly  vat  made  himself  to  sit  down  on 
der  floor  in  der  sunlight.  By  Gott,  Mister  Blacksong,  I 
do  not  love  dem  now !  Der  is  somethings  vat  is  bad  to 
haf  men  tell  it  to  peoples.  Vy  should  I  not  go  on  to 
vork  vid  happiness  and  not  this  equvality  learn?"  he 
says.  "By  Gott,  Mister  Blacksong,  do  you  know  vat 
you  haf  done  ?  No  !  Vat  is  der  difference  to  you  vid 
your  teachings  der  propaganda  and  doctrines,  eh? 
By  Gott,  Mister  Blacksong,  you  haf  made  me  to  see," 
he  says,  working  his  fingers  in  the  air.  "And  you  haf 
made  me  learn  it  to  hate !  " 

And  he  stopped  a  minute,  and  his  eyes  were  round  and 
his  big  chest  was  moving. 

And  he  says  very  soft,  says  he,  "And  so,  Mister 
Blacksong,  I  must  to  kill  you ! " 

And  before  I  could  stop  him,  he'd  reached  out  with 


290  JIM  HANDS 

them  big  arms  of  his  and  his  body  went  over  after  'em. 
And  he  caught  Blacksong  by  the  throat  with  his  thick, 
yellow-haired  fingers,  and  kneeled  upon  his  chest,  and 
the  poor  cuss  squealed  like  a  burnt  pig. 

The  foreign  woman  helped  me  to  pull  at  Pete  Sotus. 
Blacksong's  face  got  white  and  then  gray.  Great  Guns ! 
it  looked  different  from  them  red  fingers  of  Pete  Sotus. 
I  thought  we'd  be  too  late  —  the  big  foreigner  was  that 
strong  I  couldn't  tear  him  off.  But  finally  we  pried  him 
loose  and  got  the  preaching  feller  on  to  his  feet,  and 
Annie  picked  up  his  hat,  and  I  grabbed  him  by  the  collar 
and  shoved  him  out  the  door,  while  the  foreigner  woman 
held  on  to  the  big  one. 

Blacksong  got  himself  together  outside.  He  could 
hardly  speak.  It  sounded  like  a  voice  through  a  parti 
tion.  "I'll  send  him  to  the  jail  for  this!"  he  says, 
croaking  it  out. 

"Gwan,"  says  I,  "before  I  kick  you  down  the  steps," 
says  I ;  "  you  and  your  man  with  a  hoe,"  says  I. 

And  when  I  turns  to  go  back  into  the  room,  if  there 
weren't  the  foreigner  woman  sitting  in  a  chair,  and 
Pete  Sotus  down  on  his  knees  with  his  yellcr  hair  laid 
down  in  her  checkered  apron.  She,  with  her  red, 
stupid  face,  was  talking  her  lingo  kinder  soft,  but  all  he 
would  say  was :  "Like  it  vas  once !  Like  it  vas  once ! 
I  vant  der  slafery !  I  vant  der  slafery !  I  vant  der 
slafery !  "  and  he  said  it  over  and  over  like  a  fool. 

Well,  my  Annie  —  she  pulled  me  out  of  the  room, 


JIM  HANDS  291 

and  when  we  didn't  hear  no  more  noise,  I  looked  in 
again.  It  was  an  hour  or  so,  but  they  was  gone  —  both 
of  'em.  Pete  left  a  dollar  for  rent  under  the  lamp  — 
bright  green-looking  it  wTas  on  the  wooden  top.  Pete 
loved  that  woman.  She  was  big  and  red  and  homely, 
but  thunder !  she  was  his  wife.  They'd  gone  —  they'd 
gone  together. 

I  went  out  to  the  back  door  then  and  opened  it. 
The  air  felt  good.  There  was  the  sky  just  peppered  with 
stars.  The  horse  out  in  the  barn  heard  me,  I  guess, 
because  he  stamped  in  his  stall  once  or  twTice,  as  if  he 
would  like  to  have  me  go  out  and  speak  to  him ;  and  the 
last  crickets  were  singing  in  the  grass.  I  looked  up  at  the 
big  space  overhead  and  over  the  fields  at  the  mist  that 
was  hanging  above  'em,  and  somehow  I  felt  as  if  I  was 
the  only  human  being  ever  made,  and  that  the  One  that 
made  me  was  looking  down  at  me  and  studying  me  to  see 
what  He  had  turned  out.  And  standing  there,  it  come 
to  me  as  if  He  had  whispered  in  my  ear.  And  I  knew 
there  wasn't  nothing  in  the  world  worth  having  but 
good-will  to  every  feller  and  woman  and  mosquito  and 
rock  and  twigs  on  trees  and  everything.  I  just  stood 
there,  half  scared  and  half  happy. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  twenty  years  tears  I  thought 
had  long  ago  dried  up,  come  back,  and  I  kinder  jumped 
when  I  felt  the  wet  in  the  corner  of  my  eye,  and  I  looked 
out  across  them  fields  and  I  says  to  Him,  "  Don't  worry 
about  me,"  I  says.  "I  won't  hold  nothing  against  any- 


292  JIM  HANDS 

body  any  more.  Look  out  for  my  girl,"  I  says,  "wher 
ever  she  may  be,  and  keep  her  from  any  harm,"  I  says; 
and  I  went  back  into  the  house,  and  I  looked  into  the 
door  of  the  room  where  little  John  and  Michael  was  sleep 
ing,  and  I  says  to  myself  that  it  would  pay  a  man  to  go 
out  every  night  in  the  air  like  that,  and  there  hasn't  been 
a  night  since  that  I  haven't  done  it.  And  then  I  went 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

MAYBE  some  people  will  think  it  strange,  but  I  half 
expected  it.  It  weren't  three  evenings  after  that  I 
laid  down  my  pipe  and  the  newspaper  that  had  some 
reports  about  the  strike  and  people  leaving  town,  and  I 
felt  a  restless  feeling  come  over  me.  So  I  got  up  and 
turned  up  my  collar,  for  it  was  one  of  them  sharp  even 
ings  that  smell  like  winter,  and  went  out  on  to  the  front 
door-step.  I  seen  it  wouldn't  be  long  before  we  would 
have  snow,  and  the  ice  would  be  booming  in  the  river 
again,  and  the  white  hills  would  shine  Sunday  mornings 
so  you  could  hardly  see  for  the  water  the  cold  had 
brought  into  your  eyes.  And  I  was  thinking  so  when  I 
heard  the  gate  click. 

She  came  out  of  the  dark  the  way  a  camera  picture 
comes  out  on  a  plate.  I  thought  a  second  that  she 
weren't  real,  and  then  I  saw  her  eyes,  so  clear  and 
round. 

"Did  I  surprise  you?"  she  says,  in  a  voice  that  shook 
a  bit.  "Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

I  could  hardly  speak.  I  grabbed  her.  "  Katherine ! " 
I  says,  "my  girl  —  my  little  girl !" 

She  wriggled  a  little  and  put  her  bag  on  the  ground 
and  her  arms  around  my  neck. 

And  after  a  minute  she  says,  "My  mother?"  she  says. 

293 


294  JIM  HANDS 

Of  course  I  wanted  to  ask  her  questions,  but  I  could 
see  she  was  crazy  to  rush  inside. 

"  Wait  a  second,"  says  I,  very  serious.  "  Your  mother 
is  in  the  parlor.  Be  patient  with  what  she  may  say 
to  you.  She  may  be  very  slow  to  forgive  you,"  I  says; 
"and  say  nothing  about  how  your  father  welcomed  you, 
for  it  was  different  from  what  I  had  planned,"  I  says. 
"Be  careful  now,  Katherine,"  I  says.  "She  is  your 
mother,  and  has  a  right  to  be  very  stern  with  you," 
says  I. 

And  with  that  we  pushed  open  the  door  a  little  way, 
and  I  whispers  to  the  girl,  "Remember,  Katherine," 
I  says,  "that  you  have  made  your  mother  more  angry 
and  more  bitter  and  unforgiving  than  I  ever  saw  her 
before."  And  then  Katherine  went  in  alone. 

I  was  just  outside.  I  never  seen  my  Annie  so  active. 
She  just  seemed  to  leap  out  of  her  chair  and  over  the 
edge  of  the  table. 

"Katherine  !"  she  screams.  "You're  back,  dearest ! 
Oh,  my !  Oh,  my !"  she  cries.  "Come  to  your  mother," 
she  says,  and  put  her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulders  and 
held  her  off  and  looked  at  her  face  that  was  so  happy  and 
excited.  And  then  she  stopped  her  chuckling  and  little 
words  and  looked  serious.  "  I  fear  to  have  you  meet 
your  father,"  she  says.  "He  will  never  forgive  your 
going  away.  He's  like  a  raging  fire,"  she  says. 

And  so  it  was  the  girl  came  back.  She  took  off  her 
coat,  and  my  Annie  went  to  her  again,  and  I  seen  her  look 


JIM  HANDS  295 

her  in  the  eyes,  asking  questions  without  words,  the  way 
a  mother  will.  But  Katherine  only  smiled  back  at  her, 
and  I  came  in,  and  then  after  Annie  and  I  seen  how  we 
stood,  we  started  to  ask  her  questions. 

"  Katherine,  dear,  you  had  a  fool's  errand.  I  don't 
like  to  hear  about  it,"  says  my  Annie.  "But  tell  me," 
she  says,  "have  you  seen  him?" 

"Yes,"  says  Katherine,  so  soft  you  could  hardly  hear 
her. 

"And  what  then?"  says  I. 

She  looked  up  at  me.  "And  then,"  she  says,  "he 
went  back  to  college,  and  when  he  has  arranged  things 
there,  he  is  coming  back  to  show  he  isn't  afraid  of  this 
town,  either,"  she  says,  and  I  could  see  in  her  eye  the  look 
of  fight.  "He  promised  we,"  she  says,  and  her  rounded 
chin  kinder  squared  up. 

"Have  you  anything  else  to  tell  us?"  says  Annie, 
very  slow,  as  if  it  was  hard  to  say. 

Then  the  look  on  the  girl's  face  changed.  You  could 
see  the  shadow  come  over  it.  "No,"  she  says;  "I 
found  him  in  Richmond,"  she  says.  "He  had  a  job 
with  contractors  there,  and  a  pair  of  blue  overalls  and  a 
streak  of  machine  grease  on  his  face.  It  seemed  so 
funny !  And  I  told  him  what  he  must  do.  I  got  there 
about  the  time  the  whistle  blew,  and  we  got  nothing  to 
eat  that  night,  for  sitting  on  the  Capitol  steps  and  walk 
ing  around  the  grounds  with  the  city  below  us  and  the 
puffing  of  trains,"  she  says. 


296  JIM  HANDS 

"I  know  —  I  know,"  I  says,  very  impatient.  "But 
did  he  ask  you  to  forgive  him  ?  What  did  he  say  about 
the  Villet  girl?"  I  says. 

With  that  Katherine  kinder  bent  her  head  till  the 
back  of  her  neck  was  tight  and  glistening  in  the  lamp 
light  below  the  line  of  that  copper-colored  hair  of  hers. 
And  she  looked  at  the  floor  and  whispers,  "What  we 
thought  about  him  must  be  true/'  she  says,  and  swal 
lowed  as  if  there  was  a  fish-bone  in  her  throat.  "But 
he  asked  me  again  if  I  believed  it,"  she  says,  "and  I 
said  yes,  and  asked  him  to  explain,  but  he  only  said 
he  couldn't  explain  anything,  that  I  was  like  his  father 
-  without  faith,"  she  says. 

"Oh !"  cries  my  Annie.  "This  miserable  coward  !  " 
she  says.  "He  could  at  least  have  been  straight 
enough  to  admit  it,  like  a  man,"  she  says,  "to  you  who 
had  done  so  much  for  him." 

"He  was  silent  as  a  stone,"  says  Katherine,  thinking. 
"He  only  said  that  he  would  never  say  any  more  - 
that  what  he  owed  to  Anne  Villet  was  for  her  to  say." 

"And  we  will  never  see  her  again,"  says  I. 

"Maybe  we  will,"  says  Katherine.  "I  found  out 
where  she  is.  I've  sent  for  her.  It  was  hard  for  him 
to  go  back  to  his  friends ;  it  will  be  hard  for  him  to  come 
to  this  town,  not  knowing  whether  he  can  go  under  the 
roof  of  his  father's  house  or  not ;  but  he  must  do  some 
thing  more!"  she  says.  "He  must  pay  his  debt  to 
her!" 


JIM  HANDS  297 

I  seen  Annie's  eyes  grow  big  with  her  thoughts,  and 
her  hands  went  playing  along  her  dress  for  a  minute. 
* '  You  love  him  ?  "  she  says. 

"Yes,"  says  Katherine,  "I  guess  I  must.  I  guess 
it  was  intended  to  have  me." 

" And  you  told  him  so ?"  I  says. 

"No,"  she  says.  "It  was  pride  for  you  and  mother 
and  all  of  us.  I  told  his  father  once  he  must  come  with 
Bob  if  they  wanted  to  know.  And  that's  the  way  it 
will  have  to  be,"  she  says. 

With  that  I  seen  Annie's  eyes  redden  up,  and  she  half 
went  down  on  her  knees  beside  Katherine's  chair,  and 
took  her  hands,  and  the  next  minute  she  looked  up  at 
me  and  says,  "Jim,  Jim,  it's  our  own  girl,  dear.  She 
belongs  to  us!  Don't  you  see,  Jim!  She  is  such  a 
woman!" 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

AND  in  those  next  few  days  I  made  up  my  mind  her 
mother  hadn't  praised  her  too  high.  I  knew  what  was  in 
the  girl's  heart  and  how  she  had  to  keep  it  there  and  not 
let  it  out.  And  I  remembered  how  I  read  in  a  book  that 
these  fellers  that  go  hunting  for  lions  often  find  'em 
travelling  in  pairs  and  always  get  the  lioness  out  of  the 
way  first,  because  if  the  other  is  wounded  she'll  fight 
like  hell  for  him.  I  knew  Katherine  was  like  that,  and 
yet  I  could  see  how  gentle  she  could  be. 

The  strike  had  made  a  lot  of  misery  in  the  town,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  everybody  was  getting  sick,  and  there  was  a 
lot  of  the  little  money  that  was  left  spent  for  pool-playing 
and  excursions  and  betting  on  ball-games  and  drink. 
The  idleness  was  awful.  And  the  cost  of  it  was  awful 
in  a  dozen  ways,  and  ever  since  then  I've  known  that 
work  and  labor  and  plugging  at  it  day  after  day  is  the 
sweetest  thing  in  the  world. 

But  Katherine  was  always  doing  something.  There 
was  a  lot  of  people  needing  help  —  maybe  a  woman  with 
the  pneumonia  and  no  one  to  cook  the  meals  for  the 
children,  or  a  feller  that  was  begging  the  grocer  to  wait  a 
bit  for  his  money,  and  so  many  kinds  of  troubles  that 
a  man  couldn't  ever  believe  that  trouble  could  have  so 

298 


JIM  HANDS  299 

many  shapes.  And  the  way  the  girl  worked  to  set  things 
straight  reminded  me  of  the  way  one  of  them  mud-wasps 
works  —  all  the  time  and  patient,  putting  on  a  little 
here  and  a  little  there  to  the  nest,  and  never  dissatisfied 
because  one  day  wouldn't  make  much  of  a  showing. 
There  was  a  kind  of  a  reflection  of  my  Annie  in  the  girl. 
I  learned  a  new  kind  of  love  of  her. 

It  was  right  at  that  time  that  the  Talker  came  to  this 
town.  The  autumn  had  about  given  its  last  gasp,  like 
a  fish  dying  in  the  bottom  of  a  boat,  and  the  valley  was 
all  lit  up  with  the  colors  of  the  trees,  and  the  marshes  was 
brown  and  spitting  up  them  sounds  of  guns  and  white 
smoke  where  the  idle  fellers  was  out  shooting  partridges 
and  watching  for  the  first  snow  so  they  could  go  out  after 
them  hares.  I  never  knew  a  fall  when  hunting-dogs  was 
in  such  demand. 

I  remember  I  seen  him  come  over  the  rise  at  the  top  of 
Maple  Hill,  and  I  didn't  know  then  that  he  was  a  talker 
that  could  take  first,  second,  and  third  and  honorable 
mention,  barring  women. 

I  remember  it  was  in  the  morning.  And  somehow  I 
happened  to  look  up  and  I  seen  his  queer  wagon  just 
starting  down  the  hill  for  the  bridge,  with  the  brakes 
scraping,  and  the  old  white  horse  with  his  ears  down  and 
watching  for  round  stones. 

The  wagon  was  a  color  that  would  frighten  the  in 
surance  companies,  and  on  the  sides  of  it  was  painted 
a  question-mark  most  as  tall  as  a  man.  That  was  all 


300  JIM  HANDS 

except  for  him.  He  sat  on  the  seat  under  a  big  cotton 
umbrella.  I  could  see  his  eye-glasses  flashing  in  the 
sunlight. 

But  it  weren't  till  noon  that  I  got  a  close  look  at  him. 
I  was  going  up  over  the  road  home,  and  I  seen  his  wagon 
out  in  front  of  Dunham's  livery  stable  that  used  to  be 
facing  the  old  village  common  under  them  big  elm  trees 
on  Main  Street.  I'd  loaned  Birch  Dunham  my  harness, 
and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  time  to  run  across 
and  get  it,  and  I  found  this  red-wagon  feller  setting  in  the 
doorway  where  the  flies  that  is  most  froze  to  death  at 
night  buzzes  in  the  daytimes.  There  didn't  seem  to  be 
nobody  there  except  him  and  them  flies.  You  know 
how  still  a  livery  stable  can  be.  He  was  polishing  his 
glasses  on  a  silk  handkerchief  about  as  big  as  a  table- 
cover. 

I  remember  he  was  setting  under  one  of  them  pictures 
of  Doctor  Vetter,  the  horse's  friend,  because  those 
liniment  advertisements  show  that  Vetter  is  happy  and 
fat,  and  this  feller  that  sat  under  the  picture  was  so 
thin  he  seemed  to  take  a  lot  of  comfort  in  winding  his 
legs  around  each  other  when  he  got  into  a  chair;  and 
he  had  a  solemn  white  face  with  sleepy  eyes  that  when 
they  opened  would  bore  through  the  side  of  a  house,  and 
a  mustache  that  went  right  on  after  it  had  stopped 
being  a  mustache  and  followed  his  jaws  right  up  close 
until  it  ran  into  his  slick  black  hair.  There  weren't 
nothing  about  him  that  would  tell  that  he  was  old, 


JIM  HANDS  301 

but  somehow  you  knew  he  was.  He  was  kinder  pale, 
too.  Afterward,  when  I  found  out  he'd  been  in  jail, 
I  wondered  why  I  hadn't  known  of  it  to  look  at  him.  It 
won't  wash  off  a  man  and  don't  wear  off  easy. 

"There  ain't  nobody  here,"  he  says,  "but  me,"  he  says, 
in  a  kind  of  a  singsong.  "But  the  gentleman  for  whose 
kindly  offices  them  horses  is  stamping  will  be  back  in  a 
few  minutes,"  says  he. 

So  with  that  I  sat  down  in  the  sun,  too,  and  looked  at 
the  feller  and  he  looked  at  me. 

"I  suppose  you  live  in  this  town?"  says  he. 

"Yes,"  I  says.  "I'm  foreman  in  the  factory  when 
there  ain't  a  strike.  I  seen  your  wagon  coming  down 
over  the  hill  this  morning.  What  are  them  question- 
marks  ?  "  says  I. 

"Them,"  he  says,  "represents  the  human  mind. 
Everybody  asks  the  same  question.  That's  what 
they're  meant  for.  If  all  human  minds  weren't  so  much 
alike,  a  lot  of  folks  wouldn't  care  what  them  question- 
marks  were.  But  everybody  asks !  You  ask ! "  says  he, 
in  his  singsong.  ' '  A  question-mark  asks.  It  asks  you  to 
ask.  And  when  anybody  asks,  I  tell  'em." 

"Tell  'em  what?"  I  says. 

He  leaned  forward  toward  me  and  looked  me  square 
in  the  eye  and  laughed,  and  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a 
little  file  and  commenced  filing  one  of  his  long  white 
finger-nails. 

"Tell  'em  what?"  I  says,  again. 


302  JIM  HANDS 

"Well,  I  say  to  'cm  something  like  this,"  he  says, 
not  looking  up.  "  When  youse  is  asleep  in  your  bed,  you 
do  not  dream  that  a  band  of  Indians  wise  to  nature's 
everlasting  laws  and  the  secrets  of  the  great  Man  too 
is  roaming  the  hills,  valleys,  woodlands,  mountains, 
plains,  plateaus,  peaks,  and  marshes  gathering  sprouts, 
buds,  flowers,  roots,  twigs,  bark,  stems,  leaves,  seeds, 
and  bulbs  from  which  is  distilled  a  soothing,  healing, 
comforting,  pain-killing,  disease-conquering,  death-defy 
ing,  remedy  now  represented  in  this  bottle  I  hold  in 
my  hand  open  to  inspection  and  plain  to  your  naked 
eyes  — 

"What  bottle?"  says  I,  kinder  lost  in  the  up  and 
down  pumping  sound  of  his  voice. 

"Don't  bother,"  says  he.  "I'm  supposed  to  have  a 
bottle  in  this  hand,  see  ?  And  to  continue  —  which 
remedy  is  good  for  aches,  pains,  bruises,  sprains,  sore 
back,  tender  feet,  falling  of  the  hair  —  also  for  insom 
nia,  the  disease  that  doctors  often  calls  sleeplessness, 
and  malaria,  rheumatism  and  gout,  indigestion,  and  all 
such  kindred  ailments.  The  price  of  this  remedy  is  not 
ten  dollars,  not  five  dollars,  not  even  one  dollar,  gentle 
men.  The  few  left  are  sold  to-night  for  fifty  cents,  half 
a  dollar,  five  dimes !  And  with  each  and  every  bottle 
we  give  away  one  of  the  combination  pens,  corkscrews, 
glass-cutters,  and  can-openers !  " 

"I  see,"  says  I.     "You're  a  travelling  doctor." 

"Perfesser,"   he   says,   correcting  me.     "And  as  a 


JIM  HANDS  303 

matter  of  fact,  I've  given  up  that  Piute  Remedy  line. 
This  summer  I'm  carrying  soaps,  hair  tonics,  clothes 
hangers,  and  Smith's  wart  and  blemish  remover,"  says 
he,  working  away  with  his  little  nail-file.  "For  when 
you're  carrying  Indian  remedies  you  have  to  have  an 
Indian.  They're  all  alike.  The  last  one  I  had  was  a 
Baltimore  nigger,"  he  says,  "and  once  I  had  a  real  In 
dian,  but  he  used  to  get  homesick  and  cry.  I  was 
disgusted." 

With  that  he  held  up  his  long  white  finger  in  the 
sunlight  and  looked  at  it  as  if  he'd  just  made  it  himself. 
"Yep,"  says  he,  "I'm  perfesser.  I  guess  I'm  a  per- 
fesser  of  talking  —  that's  me.  That's  all  I  am  and  all 
I'll  ever  be  good  for,"  he  says.  "Once  I  thought  — 
but  that's  gone  long  ago,  and  awful  long  ago  at  that. 
But  I'm  an  artist  in  my  line.  I  make  a  pretty  good 
thing  of  it,  and  my  stuff's  good,  honest  stuff,  too,  except 
the  wart  remover.  Even  that  kinder  bleaches  'em. 
But  when  I  get  going  I  can  talk  a  bird  out  of  a  tree.  Yes, 
sir.  I  can  talk  a  man's  head  out  from  under  his  hat. 
It's  too  bad  it  couldn't  never  been  turned  to  good  ac 
count.  Good  talkers  oughter  be  careful  not  to  do  any 
harm." 

And  I  knew  he  was  right.  He  sat  there  watching  the 
stream  of  men  and  women  going  in  and  out  of  the  post- 
office,  walking  slow,  and  seemed  to  be  studying  each  one 
of  'em  just  as  if  he  was  used  to  studying  everybody  he 
saw.  Now  and  then  he'd  wrinkle  his  nose  to  let 


304  JIM  HANDS 

his  spectacles  fall  down  into  place,  but  all  the  time  he 
talked  I  had  to  look  at  him.  I  had  to  listen.  I  suppose 
it's  a  good  deal  in  practice,  but  maybe  people  is  born 
talkers. 

I  says  to  him,  "Have  you  got  eye  trouble  ? " 

"No,"  he  says,  "these  glasses  is  just  plain  glass. 
But,"  he  says,  as  if  he  thought  I  was  a  fool,  "what's  a 
perfesser  without  glasses  ?  I  wear  glasses  for  the  same 
reason  I  wear  this  tall  celluloid  collar  that  cuts  my  neck, 
and  this  black  necktie,"  he  says.  "It's  a  fake.  But  I 
don't  know  nobody  that  ain't  a  faker  one  way  or  an 
other,"  says  he.  "Most  of  their  faking  is  funny.  It 
don't  do  no  harm.  It's  like  an  old  dog  without  teeth 
making  a  lot  of  noise.  That's  me,"  he  says. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  leaned  forward,  and  the 
front  legs  of  his  chair  come  down  with  a  bang  that  started 
up  all  them  flies. 

"Who's  that?"  he  yells  to  me  in  a  kinder  whisper. 
I  seen  his  long  fingers  press  on  his  nail-file  till  it  bust  with 
a  snap,  and  the  two  pieces  fell  on  the  floor.  I  seen  he  was 
looking  across  the  road,  and  he  was  pointing  with  one 
hand. 

There  was  a  lot  of  folks  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
and  I  couldn't  tell  who  he  meant. 

"Which  is  who?"  I  says. 

"The  one  with  a  little  mustache,"  he  says,  choking 
and  red,  and  his  fingers  feeling  along  his  coat  buttons. 

"That's  Carter  Elmore,  the  Boss's  son-in-law,"  says  I, 


JIM  HANDS  305 

kinder  excited,  for  you  catch  them  feelings  like  a  disease. 
And  he  jumped  as  if  I'd  stuck  a  hat  pin  into  his 
leg. 

He  stood  there  looking,  and  by  and  by  he  let  out  a 
breath  as  if  it  hurt  him,  and  he  says,  "It's  him.  It's 
him!"  and  he  kinder  whistled  it  between  his  thin  lips. 
And  then  he  sits  down  in  the  chair  again  and  takes  off 
his  big  black  hat  and  smoothed  it  out  on  his  knee  and 
kept  snapping  dust  specks  off  it  with  his  long,  pointed 
finger-nails.  "And  after  all  this  time,  too,"  he  says. 

"Is  he  married?"  he  says,  wetting  his  lips. 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "he  married  the  Boss's  daughter. 
They  live  in  New  York.  He's  just  been  visiting  here 
this  summer  with  his  wife." 

"How's  she?"  he  says,  looking  at  the  floor. 

"Who's  that?"  I  says. 

"The  wife  —  his  wife,"  he  says.  "Does  she  still 
have  that  little  laugh  ?  "  he  says.  ' '  And  her  black  hair  ? 
Or  maybe  she's  bleached  it  now,"  he  says. 

"No,"  I  says,  "you've  got  the  wrong  people,"  I 
says.  "His  wife  ain't  like  the  woman  you  describe," 
I  says.  "Did  you  think  you  knew  him?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  no!"  he  says,  looking  up  quick.  "I  was  just 
joking." 

With  that  he  got  up  and  began  walking  up  and  down 
the  floor,  and  after  a  while  he  looks  at  me  over  his 
glasses  and  says,  "I  don't  suppose  a  bookkeeper  can 
make  enough  to  take  care  of  a  big  family." 


306  JIM  HANDS 

"Why,  he  ain't  a  bookkeeper/'  I  says.  "He's  a 
a  broker  in  New  York.  He  makes  a  lot  of  money." 

"Is  his  wife  small?"  he  says,  plucking  his  fingers 
with  his  other  hand. 

"No,"  I  says,  "she  stands  as  tall  as  I  do,"  I  says. 

"No  children?"  he  says. 

"No,"  says  I,  "just  them  two;"  and  I  was  watching 
Carter  Elmore  walking  along  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  swinging  a  cane  as  he  went. 

' '  No  children  ?  "  the  Talker  says,  kinder  soft.  ' '  Well, 
that's  different ; "  and  he  wipes  his  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand. 

And  when  I  looked  up  again  he  was  standing  there 
on  the  stable  floor  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand.  He 
kinder  patted  it  with  his  other  fingers  and  he  says: 
"Now  there's  a  good  weapon,"  he  says.  "I  bought  that 
seven  years  ago.  I  thought  maybe  I'd  have  some  use 
for  it,"  he  says.  "Ain't  it  funny  how  you  plan  things, 
and  how  you  picture  'em  over  and  over  again,  and  when 
the  time  comes  everything  is  different?  Ain't  it 
strange  ?  " 

"And  it's  funny,  too,"  he  says,  "how  people  change, 
and  how  you  will  be  sure  you'll  know  people  you  haven't 
seen  for  fifteen  years,  and  when  you  meet  'em  again 
you  can't  be  sure.  And  yet  a  little  thing  like  a  wart  or  a 
birthmark  or  a  tattoo  on  the  skin  would  be  enough, 
if  you  can  only  see  it,  to  tell  the  story,  even  though 
names  and  everything  else  has  changed."  And  he 


JIM  HANDS  307 

looked  at  the  revolver  again  and  put  it  back  in  his  hip 
pocket. 

"  I  suppose  you  need  that,"  I  says,  speaking  up, " trav 
elling  as  you  do  from  town  to  town  alone  on  the  road." 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  he  says.  "I  didn't  buy  it  for  that. 
I  bought  it  to  shoot  a  man  when  I  found  him."  And 
with  that  he  laughed  and  wrinkled  his  nose  again  to  let 
his  eye-glasses  drop  into  place.  "  Ain't  it  a  funny 
world  ? "  he  says.  "I  bust  my  nail-file,"  he  says,  stoop 
ing  down  and  picking  up  one  piece  of  it.  "Ain't  that 
too  bad?" 

"Look  here,"  I  says,  for  I'd  been  thinking,  "you 
don't  mean  Carter  Elmore  is  the  feller  you've  been  look 
ing  for?" 

"No,"  he  says,  "I  guess  he  ain't  the  one.  But 
you  won't  say  nothing  about  it,  anyhow,  will  you?" 

"I  won't,"  I  says,  and  Birch  Dunham  come  in  just 
then  and  I  had  to  talk  with  him;  and  when  I  looked 
back  over  my  shoulder,  I  seen  the  perfesser  had  gone 
back  to  sit  in  his  chair,  just  as  I  first  seen  him  in  the 
sunlight,  with  the  flies  buzzing  around  and  with  his  big 
black  hat  setting  on  his  gray  head  again,  and  the  little 
piece  of  nail-file  turning  around  and  around  in  his 
fingers,  and  his  sleepy  eyes  looking  way  off  on  to  that 
ridge  of  pines  there  where  the  crows  is  always  flying  in 
circles. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  weren't  till  that  night  I  seen  him  again.  And  I 
won't  forget  it,  neither. 

I  remember  I  went  down  to  the  village  that  evening. 
I  told  my  Annie  that  I'd  be  right  back,  but  going  down 
Maple  Street  I  met  Father  Ryan.  He's  an  artist  for 
passing  the  time  of  day,  and  it's  fine  to  see  the  smile  on 
that  red  face  of  his. 

We  walked  along  down  toward  the  stores,  up  by  the 
drinking  fountain,  and  when  we  turned  the  corner  we  see 
the  perfessor's  wagon  backed  up  against  the  side  of  the 
Odd  Fellows'  building.  There  was  a  couple  of  gasoline 
lights  flaming  and  blazing  away  on  each  side  of  it,  and  it 
was  a  sight  to  see  how,  when  that  wagon  had  opened  up, 
it  was  changed  into  a  regular  travelling  store,  with  a 
counter  out  front  and  shelves  behind  and  a  platform 
for  the  perfessor  to  stand  on. 

And  the  perfesser  was  there  himself,  standing  with  a 
cornet  in  one  hand,  playing  it,  and  a  big  drum-beater, 
or  whatever  you  call  'em,  whacking  at  a  bass  drum  with 
the  other  hand,  all  at  the  same  time.  I  thought  to 
myself,  "You  may  be  talented  in  one  direction,  but  it 
ain't  in  music."  But  of  course  that  didn't  make  any 
difference.  The  idea  was  to  make  noise. 

308 


JIM  HANDS  309 

Then,  besides,  whenever  the  gasoline  flared  up  good 
you  could  see  a  big  snake  wound  around  the  perfessor's 
neck  and  swinging  his  head  back  and  forth. 

"  Jim,"  says  Father  Ryan  to  me,  " those  are  bad  men 
-  those  like  him  —  selling  worthless  stuff  to  the  poor. 
You  may  expect  to  see  'em  in  the  summer,  but  seldom 
so  late  as  this  —  when  winter  is  nearly  on  us  and  a  strike 
in  the  town,  too,"  he  says.  "Just  see  how  everybody 
is  running.  I  don't  approve  of  it  —  not  a  bit,"  he  says. 
"'Tis  a  bad  influence,  and  I'm  surprised  to  see  men  like 
Pierson  and  Joline  and  Henry  Morse  is  open  to  such 
curiosity,"  he  says.  " What's  that  the  rascal  has 
around  his  neck  ?"  he  says. 

11 A  snake,"  says  I. 

"A  real  snake?"  says  he.  "And  see  him  now. 
He's  blind-folding  himself.  What  do  you  suppose  he's 
going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  I. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  he  says.  "Do  you  suppose  it  would 
do  any  harm  if  we  drew  nearer?"  he  says. 

"Your  Reverence  shouldn't  be  a  party  to  this 
proceeding,"  I  says,  "even  as  a  spectator,"  I  says. 
"Maybe,"  says  I,  "I  offer  it  for  a  suggestion,"  I  says, 
with  a  grin. 

"Look  there,"  he  says,  "he's  doing  a  trick  with  a  man's 
hat,"  he  says.  "Did  you  ever  see  the  like  of  that 
crowd  ?  If  we're  going  to  see  anything,  we  must  go  as 
fast  as  our  two  legs  will  carry  us." 


310  JIM  HANDS 

"We  have  four  legs  between  us,"  says  I. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  hundred/'  he  says,  almost  running. 
"I'm  fond  of  hearing  them  rascals  talk,"  he  says. 
"Come  on,"  he  says.  "'Twill  be  sad  for  you  when 
you're  less  of  a  boy  than  me,  Jim,  though  don't  say  I 
said  it,  or  folks  will  find  out  I  have  no  respect  for  own  my 
white  hair,"  he  says,  puffing  and  blowing  and  keeping  in 
the  shadows  of  the  bare  elm  trees  where  nobody 'd  see  him. 

The  crowd  was  all  pressing  and  pushing  and  pulling, 
old  and  young,  around  the  cart.  You  could  see  the 
faces  turned  up  and  shining  red  and  yellow  in  the  light 
of  the  gasoline  torches.  And  even  all  the  old  fellers'  eyes 
were  glistening,  and  right  then  anybody  could  tell  that 
men  grow  up  a  little  in  a  lifetime,  but  the  oldest  man 
in  the  world  dies  young.  I  guess  I  was  like  the  others, 
anxious  to  hear  and  see,  though  I  never  suspected  what 
would  turn  up.  And  I  looks  around  beside  me  and 
Father  Ryan's  mouth  was  open  as  wide  as  temptation, 
and  while  the  perfesser  talked  in  his  singsong  way,  his 
Reverence  beat  time  with  his  finger  just  as  if  he  was 
teaching  poetry  to  the  kids  at  the  parochial  school. 

"Move  up  closer  there  in  front,  please,"  says  the  per 
fesser,  "for  I  see  there's  more  coming,  and  them  who  is 
standing  back  there,"  he  says,  pointing  with  his  long 
finger  and  winking,  "is  the  most  curious.  And  now, 
brothers,"  he  says,  "if  you  will  give  me  your  attention 
for  a  moment  or  two,  I'll  present  to  your  notice  a  mar 
vellous  new  discovery.  In  the  meantime  I'll  wash  my 


JIM  HANDS  311 

hands  in  this  here  basin,  using,  as  you  see,  ordinary 
water  just  as  it  runs  from  a  pump,  a  faucet,  water  spigot, 
or  garden  hose.  And  from  this  here  tin  with  patent 
perforated  top — you  can  see,  Clarence,  without  climbing 
on  to  my  wagon  —  from  this  here  tin  I  shake  a  couple  of 
flakes  of  this  here  substance  on  to  the  palm  of  my  hand," 
he  says. 

"And,"  he  says,  dipping  his  hands  into  the  water, 
"here  is  where  the  rub  comes,"  he  says.  "When  I  was 
in  Catacomb,  Ohio,  a  year  ago,  a  little  boy  in  the  crowd 
says  to  me,  'Doc  Smith,  do  my  hands  need  washing?' 
I  says,  'They  certainly  do,  young  man.'  'Well/  he  says, 
'you  oughter  see  mother's  face.": 

And  as  he  was  talking  he  rubbed  up  a  big  lather  that 
stood  half  a  foot  high,  and  then  he  told  how  that  lather 
weren't  like  ordinary  soap,  but  how  it  went  into  the 
pores  of  the  skin  and  killed  the  germs;  and  then  he 
went  on  talking  and  rubbing  until  the  lather  was  all 
gone  and  his  hands  was  dry  and  he'd  wiped  'em  on  a 
towel.  But  then  he'd  pour  some  more  clean  water 
over  'em,  and  the  same  lather  would  work  right  up 
again  just  as  white  and  frothy  as  ever,  and  I  guess 
he  did  it  four  times. 

The  crowd  was  listening  and  looking  at  him  every 
second,  and  finally  an  old  feller  from  one  of  the  farms 
out  on  the  Dalton  Road  snorted  out  and  says,  "Doc, 
that's  great  stuff,  that  soap,  but  how  in  blazes  do  you 
ever  get  shed  of  it?" 


312  JIM  HANDS 

Everybody  laughed  and  shifted  their  feet  and  thought 
the  joke  was  on  the  perfesser,  but  it  didn't  bother  him 
any.  He  looks  up  over  his  glasses  and  says:  "I'm  sur 
prised  you  didn't  know,"  he  says.  "When  you've 
got  a  good  lather  worked  up,  just  hang  it  up  on  a  hook 
and  use  it  when  you  come  back,"  he  says. 

"Now  this  marvellous  antiseptic,  cleansing,  purifying, 
germ-destroying,  strictly  scientific  preparation,"  he 
says,  leaning  forward  till  I  thought  he'd  fall  over, 
"is  known  to  the  wide  world  as  'Smith's  Twelve-Horse- 
Power  Magic  Flake.'  It  is  good  for  hands,  face,  bath, 
hair,  dandruff,  and  all  skin  troubles ;  for  man  and  beast, 
horse,  dog,  and  cat,  and  may  be  used  to  wash  woollens, 
laces,  silk ;  will  remove  the  stains  from  clothing,  includ 
ing  the  most  delicate  fabrics;  will  clean  silver,  china, 
brass,  and  porcelain,  varnish,  furniture,  spots  on  wall 
paper  and  plaster-paris  statuary;  soothing  and  allaying 
irritation  after  shaving.  With  each  and  every  can  of 
this  powder  which  I  sell  here  to-night  I  give  away  one 
of  these  here  Swiss  metal  watch-charms.  Not  only 
that,  but  I  add  to  it  one  of  these  here  sets  of  open-eye 
needles  that  will  save  the  fingers  and  eyesight  of  your 
old  mother,  grandmother,  or  wife,  sister,  aunt,  or  daugh 
ter,  equally  as  well,"  he  says.  "The  price  of  this  giant 
household  combination  is  three  dollars  and  ninety 
cents." 

"Gee!"  says  three  or  four  in  the  crowd,  and  with 
that  the  perfesser  looked  up  at  the  swinging  branches  of 


JIM  HANDS  313 

the  tree  that  hung  down  beside  him,  where  the  leaves 
kinder  took  the  light  from  the  gasoline. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "who's  the  first?"  he  says,  holding 
out  the  articles.  "Nobody?"  he  says.  "Oh,  well," 
he  says,  "I  forgot  to  mention  that  three  dollars  and 
ninety  cents,  or  thirty-nine  dimes,  was  the  original  price 
of  this  outfit,  but  to  introduce  these  here  articles  quick 
on  the  market,  I'm  going  to  sell  'em  off  to-night  at  a 
different  price.  Not  a  dollar,  not  a  half,  quarter,  or 
eighth  of  a  dollar,  but  one  dime,  ten  cents,  the  tenth 
part  of  a  dollar.  Let  them  gentlemen  come  close, 
please,"  he  says.  "One  right  here.  I've  got  your 
change  right  there.  And  the  next  one  here.  A  few 
more  left  now.  One  here  to  this  gentleman.  Don't 
crowd.  Another  here.  Wait  a  bit ;  you'll  get  yours  in 
a  minute,  brother." 

And  on  he  went  selling  'em  right  and  left,  swaying  his 
body  from  side  to  side,  and  keeping  on  talking  with  a 
voice  that  sounded  up  and  down,  and  pumping  and 
running  all  the  words  together.  And  just  the  second 
he  seen  the  sales  was  going  slow  he  stopped  and  wiped  off 
all  the  packages  left  on  his  stand  into  a  box  with  his 
arm,  and  reaches  down  as  quick  as  a  wink  and  pulls  out 
the  snake  again  and  holds  it  up. 

"Now,"  he  says,  "we  will  do  an  act  to  conclude  the 
performance.  I  want  to  entertain  you  a  minute  with  a 
description  of  this  monster  captured  in  the  wilds  of 
Florida.  This  snake  is  the  alligator  or  spotted  snake, 


314  JIM  HANDS 

from  which  the  native  Indians  distil  the  oil  that  goes 
into  a  little  preparation  I  have  here  to-night.  Now 
my  contention  is  that  every  man  alive  has  got  on  him 
somewhere  a  mole  or  blemish  of  the  skin.  I'll  go  farther 
than  this,  brothers.  I'll  prove  it  right  here  before  you 
without  any  attempt  to  conceal,  or  other  deception." 

11  Ain't  he  the  rascal!"  says  Father  Ryan  in  my 
ear.  "Just  look  at  him  now!" 

I  seen  then  the  perfesser  had  stopped  and  was  looking 
around  in  the  crowd.  He  looked  kinder  worn  and  old 
and  tired,  too,  and  I  seen  his  hand  go  up  to  his  collar 
and  pull  at  it  as  if  to  let  in  more  air.  He  finally  pointed 
to  a  long,  tall  feller  that  works  on  the  railroad. 

" You've  got  one,"  he  says,  "you  with  the  gray 
felt  hat,"  he  says.  "But  you  ain't  never  seen  it. 
And  yet  you  know  you've  got  it.  It's  on  the  back  of 
your  neck." 

The  feller  opened  his  eyes  as  wide  as  water  crackers, 
and  before  he  could  stop,  he  says,  "How  did  you 
know?" 

"Easy,  my  friend,"  says  the  perfesser.  "When  I  first 
spoke  you  felt  to  see  if  it  was  still  there." 

And  he  says,  pointing  to  another  feller  by  the  name  of 
Osborn,  "You've  got  one  on  your  left  shoulder." 

"No,  I  ain't, "says  the  feller. 

But  he  didn't  say  it  loud,  and  so  the  perfesser  went 
pointing  around  the  crowd,  saying,  "You  got  one,"  and 
"You  got  one,"  and  nobody  could  see  who  he  was  point- 


JIM  HANDS  315 

ing  at,  so  nobody  denied  it,  and  everybody  laughed  and 
whispered  as  if  the  perfesser  was  doing  something 
wonderful,  sure. 

But  when  he  come  to  one  man  on  his  way  around,  I 
noticed  he  stopped  a  minute  and  coughed,  and  I  seen  the 
man  was  Carter  Elmore.  And  then  the  Talker  says, 
kinder  laughing:  " There's  a  gentleman  there  with  a 
pearl -gray  felt  hat  on.  And  he's  got  a  mole  on  the  top 
side  of  his  left  wrist,"  he  says,  and  he  rested  one  hand  on 
the  stand  and  leaned  forward.  ' '  How  is  that,  brother  ?  " 
he  says,  showing  his  teeth  as  he  spoke. 

I  seen  Elmore  —  course  I  ain't  giving  his  real  name  — • 
I  seen  Elmore  jump  a  little.  He'd  been  looking  at  the 
perfesser  pretty  steady,  for  I  watched  him,  but  he  kinder 
looked  away  then  and  at  the  ground,  and  I  seen  him 
reach  out  and  grab  Dave  Pierson's  arm  as  if  he  was 
going  to  fall.  Everybody  was  anxious  to  know  if  the 
perfesser  had  hit  it  right  again,  and  so  it  was  still,  — even 
the  crowd  was  still,  —  and  you  couldn't  hear  nothing 
but  the  warm  wind  in  them  trees  and  a  train  whistling 
way  off  somewhere  down  the  line. 

And  finally  the  Boss's  son-in-law  straightened  up  and 
looked  straight  at  the  perfesser  and  nodded. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE  perfesser  stepped  back  a  little  and  took  off  his 
black  hat  and  snapped  at  the  dust  on  it  with  his  finger. 
It  seemed  to  me  he  was  shaking  a  little,  but  nobody 
seemed  to  notice  it,  and  he  laughed  and  went  on  pointing 
out  a  couple  more,  cracking  a  joke  for  each,  and  telling 
how  he  knew  a  man  that  used  a  mole  on  the  back  of  his 
hand  to  remember  things  by  instead  of  tying  a  piece  of 
string  around  his  finger. 

"And,"  he  says,  "now  I've  proved  everything,  I'm 
going  to  present  to  your  notice  and  attention  this  little 
box  of  salve  composed  and  made  up  of  natural  oils  of 
the  famous  Suwanee  alligator,  or  spotted  snake,  known 
for  centuries  to  Indians  and  explorers  of  that  death-deal 
ing  swamp  for  their  curative  properties.  Every  box 
of  this  salve  represents  a  daring  capture  perpetrated, 
maybe,  at  the  cost  of  a  human  life,  and  is  going  to  be 
sold  to-night  at  the  red-letter-day  price  of  ten  cents, 
together  with  a  written  and  signed  guarantee  that  the 
salve  will  remove  any  blemish  or  disfigurement  in 
twenty-four  hours,  if  used  according  to  direction  thereby 
given.  Who'll  be  first  here?  A  genuine  four-carat 
California  diamond  scarf-pin  is  given  away  with  each 
box,  providing  no  question  is  asked  and  nothing  is  said 

316 


JIM  HANDS  317 

about  where  you  bought  it.  If  this  scarf-pin  ain't  worth 
at  any  jeweller's  nine  times  what  you  pay  me  for  it, 
bring  it  back  to  me,  and  I'll  gladly  hand  you  back  the 
price.  Who's  next  here  ?  One  dime, "  he  says.  ' '  Your 
Canadian  quarter  is  all  right,  young  man.  Another  here. 
Here  they  come.  Another  here.  Full  directions  given 
-  the  genuine  Suwanee  Snake  Salve,  as  used  by  the 
court  beauties  of  France  for  over  a  century.  Thank 
you.  Stand  back  there,  please,  after  completing  your 
purchase,"  he  says.  You  know  how  them  fellers  go  on. 

But  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped  and  looked  up  m  the 
air  and  whistled.  It  seemed  just  as  if  he'd  been  think 
ing  and  suddenly  hit  upon  just  what  he  wanted  to  plan. 

"Gents,"  he  says,  "we'll  stop  right  here  a  moment. 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  story,  gents,"  says  he,  keeping 
right  on  with  his  singsong  voice  —  "a  story  that  is  all 
wool,  a  yard  wide,  and  contains  no  shoddy  or  adultera 
tion  whatever,"  he  says. 

Of  course  I  didn't  know  his  story  was  going  to  affect 
me  any. 

"And  now,  gents,"  he  says,  "there  was  a  feller  fifteen 
years  ago  had  a  house  just  outside  of  Chicago  —  one  of 
these  little  houses  painted  white  and  a  picket  fence 
around  it,"  he  says,  "where  the  cat  used  to  lie  out  in  the 
sun  on  warm  days  in  springs,  and  inside  the  fence  was 
some  flowers  planted.  And  when  the  feller  used  to 
come  home  at  night,  his  wife  —  and  she  was  a  pretty 
woman — used  to  pull  off  her  apron  and  come  out  and 


318  JIM  HANDS 

meet  him.  This  here  feller  didn't  amount  to  much  as 
men  go.  He  was  a  drummer,  selling  a  line  of  bicycle 
bells  and  lamps,  see  ?  He  weren't  making  much  money, 
and  he  liked  good  clothes,  and  there  weren't  a  great  deal 
in  his  favor  except  his  talking.  He  was  a  natural-born 
talker.  He'd  talk  a  man  right  out  from  under  his  hat." 

With  that  the  perfesser  stopped  and  coughed  and 
laid  his  black  felt  hat  down  on  a  pile  of  salve  boxes  and 
played  with  the  buttons  on  his  coat. 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  "there  weren't  much  to  him,  I  guess, 
except  talk.  And  then  maybe,  besides,  that  he  was  fond 
of  her — of  that  little  woman.  She  was  kinder  pink,  and 
she  had  the  finest  little  laugh  you  ever  listened  to,  and  he 
carried  her  picture  pasted  in  the  front  of  his  order-book 
so's  every  time  he  wrote  an  order  he'd  see  her  and  think 
how  he  was  earning  a  living  for  'em  both,"  he  says. 

"I  ain't  going  to  tell  it  long,"  says  he.  "I've  got  to 
sell  some  of  these  here  goods,  but  this  feller  had  a  friend, 
a  feller,  we'll  say,  named  Rayworth.  He  weren't  an  old 
friend  nor  nothing  like  that.  He  was  a  bookkeeper  in  a 
big  hotel,  and  was  a  good  deal  younger  than  the  husband, 
but  he  come  from  a  first-rate  family,  and  these  two  others 
let  him  have  a  room  and  board  out  in  their  house  tc  help 
out  expenses.  The  first  feller  was  a  fool.  He  was  only 
a  talker,  and  he  didn't  ever  see  during  them  months 
that  Rayworth  was  making  such  good  friends  with  the 
little  woman.  But  Rayworth  was  a  pretty  good  talker, 
too. 


JIM  HANDS  319 

"Well,"  says  the  perfesser,  wiping  his  forehead, 
"Rayworth  used  to  say  that  anybody  who  couldn't 
make  money  and  own  a  big  house  and  carriages  was  a 
fool ;  and  he  told  how  all  the  big  fellers  had  got  rich  first 
by  selling  nothing  for  something,  and  he  explained  about 
stock  companies  and  how  many  suckers  there  was,  and 
he  said  if  he  was  as  good  a  talker  as  this  first  feller 
he  would  go  into  it  quick. 

"The  first  feller  didn't  know  much  about  them  things, 
but  by  and  by  it  seemed  just  common  business  to  fix 
up  a  company  of  some  kind  and  sell  stock  and  take 
the  money  and  use  it.  It  seemed  just  like  what  the  big 
fellers  did.  And  so  then,  gents,  Rayworth  taught  this 
first  feller  how  to  do  it,  and  all  Rayworth  asked  for  that 
teaching  was  a  note  promising  so  much  money  on  a 
certain  date  out  of  the  profits.  That's  all  Rayworth  did. 
He  was  scared  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  real 
business.  Then  one  morning,  when  they  was  all  sitting 
down  to  breakfast  and  everything  was  going  fine  and 
a  whole  lot  of  money  had  come  in  already,  a  ring  came 
on  the  electric  bell,  and  two  big  fellers  walked  straight  in 
past  the  woman,  for  she  had  answered  the  bell,  and  they 
stood  there  looking  at  Rayworth  and  the  coffee  and  eggs 
and  bacon  and  muffins,  and  the  talking  feller  still  sitting 
there  holding  the  blue  coffee-cup  his  wife  had  bought 
for  him  when  they  first  went  to  housekeeping.  Yes, 
gents,"  says  the  perfesser,  "they  stood  there  and 
laughed,  and  one  of  'em  says,  'This  is  a  pretty  little  nest, 


320  JIM  HANDS 

ain't  it  ? '  and  the  other  hands  the  talking  feller  a  warrant 
and  says,  'It's  embezzlement,  my  friend,  and  we  got  the 
case  tacked  down  in  fifty  places.  Get  your  hat  and  coat 
and  don't  say  nothing  we  can  use  against  you.' 

"Well,  gents,  the  first  thing  the  feller  thought  of  was 
Rayworth  and  how,  maybe,  if  that  note  could  be  de 
stroyed,  there  wouldn't  be  nothing  against  him,  and  it 
just  happened  that  the  feller  knew  that  the  note  was  in 
Rayworth's  overcoat  pocket.  And  so  the  feller  went 
out  into  the  kitchen  and  put  on  Rayworth's  coat  instead 
of  his  own,  and  when  he  got  a  chance  and  the  big  inspec 
tor  wasn't  looking,  he  took  all  the  papers  out  of  the  in 
side  pocket  and  put  'em  through  a  crack  in  the  stove. 
And  he  did  it  to  save  Rayworth,  and  of  course  when  that 
note  was  gone  Rayworth  was  all  clear." 

The  perfesser  stopped  again  and  turned  one  of  them 
knobs  on  the  gasoline  torch  so  the  light  come  up  again 
good  and  bright,  but  you  could  see  how  white  his  face 
looked  against  the  shadow  of  the  tree  on  the  wall  behind. 
You  could  hear  one  feller  trying  to  screw  on  a  cover  to 
his  salve  box. 

"And  then,"  says  the  perfesser,  "the  feller  looked  all 
around  and  smelled  the  nice  warm  smell  inside  the  house 
she  used  to  keep  so  clean,  and  then  he  looked  at  her. 
And  when  he  seen  she  wasn't  crying  or  nothing,  he  was 
frightened^  She  was  standing  there  looking  at  him 
just  as  if  she'd  never  seen  him  before.  And  he  says, 
'Ain't  you  going  to  say  nothing?'  And  she  says,  'No. 


JIM  HANDS  321 

Mr.  Rayworth  told  me  two  months  ago  that  he  was 
afraid  you  was  in  some  dirty  work  and  would  get  into 
trouble.  But  I  only  half  believed  him  then.'  And 
Rayworth  stood  behind  her  and  said,  ' That's  so,  Ed,  but 
I  hope  I  won't  be  asked  to  testify  against  you/  and  then 
the  feller  knew  that  Rayworth  had  tricked  him,  and  that 
anyhow  he  no  longer  had  any  home. 

"And,  gents,  they  sent  that  feller  up  for  seven  years, 
and  the  feller  served  six  of  it.  It  was  really  a  hundred 
and  eighty-two  years.  And  she  got  a  divorce  from  him. 
He  couldn't  do  nothing  about  it.  And  Rayworth  took 
the  girl  away  and  maybe  he  married  her,  though  maybe 
he  didn't.  Anyhow,  she  belonged  to  him. 

"So  when  the  feller  got  out,"  says  he,  "it  was  just  be 
fore  Christmas,  and  he  shook  hands  with  the  warden,  and 
the  warden  says,  'Ed,  keep  out  of  trouble.  Don't 
forget  that  you  still  wear  that  tattoo  mark  and  picture 
of  a  ship  on  your  forearm  that  was  put  there  when  you 
was  almost  a  boy.  It's  still  with  you,  and  so's  your  rec 
ord.  Keep  out  of  trouble.'  And  the  feller  walked  out 
where  there  was  the  noise  of  trucks  and  mud  in  the 
streets  and  electric  lights  in  the  store  windows,  and  he 
walked  as  far  as  a  pawnshop.  And  the  man  there  says, 
'You  look  kinder  sick.'  But  all  the  feller  did  was  to  buy 
a  revolver,  and  then  he  started  out  to  look  for  Rayworth. 
He'd  found  out  already  that  Rayworth  had  got  fright 
ened,  not  knowing  the  note  had  been  burned  up,  and  was 
afraid  that  the  feller  would  come  out  of  prison  and  tell 


322  JIM  HANDS 

on  him  or  kill  him;  and  so  he'd  changed  his  name,  prob 
ably,  and  disappeared.  But  the  feller  was  going  to  be 
patient,  and  something  told  him  that  he'd  find  Ray- 
worth  some  day,  and  then  he'd  kill  him.  There  weren't 
any  real  life  of  any  kind  left  for  him.  He  didn't  know 
anybody  or  any  place.  He  went  back  to  look  at  the 
little  house  once,  but  they'd  built  a  big  apartment 
building  there.  And  the  main  thing  to  do  was  to  kill 
Rayworth  when  he  found  him.  And  he  hunted  for 
seven  years." 

Then  the  perfesser  wiped  his  forehead  again,  for  his 
face  was  all  wet,  and  he  pulled  out  the  revolver  he'd 
showed  me  and  pointed  it  up  in  the  air,  and  looked  at  it. 

And  he  says,  ' '  Gents,  suppose  I  said  I  was  that  feller. 
And  suppose  I  said  this  was  the  revolver.  And  suppose 
I  said  that  Rayworth  was  standing  right  down  there 
among  you  and  I  could  drop  him  like  a  dog." 

At  that  the  crowd  kinder  moved  and  there  was  a 
kinder  rustle  of  whispers,  and  everybody  watched  him. 
And  then  after  a  minute  I  seen  'em  all  looking  at  each 
other.  But  the  perfesser  laid  the  gun  down,  and  several 
of  'em  gave  a  sigh.  I  could  hear  'em. 

"But  suppose,"  says  the  perfesser,  "I  could  do 
something  worse  than  shooting  him.  Suppose  he  was 
known  in  this  town.  Suppose  he  was  respected,  and 
folks  seen  he  was  prosperous  and  come  from  good  people 
and  went  with  good  people.  Suppose  he  had  left  this 
first  woman,  perhaps,  and  married  a  second  one,  who 


JIM  HANDS  323 

believed  he  was  all  right.  Then  suppose  I  took  this  long 
finger  and  pointed  it  at  him  now,  as  he  stands  down  there 
with  you  and  says,  'That's  him ! '  He'd  have  to  go  away 
from  this  town,  wouldn't  he?  He'd  have  to  have  his 
wife  know  what  he  was.  He  wouldn't  ever  know  when  I 
was  going  to  turn  up  again.  And  suppose  I  followed 
him  wherever  he  went  and  waited  till  he  got  settled  and 
then  pointed  at  him  again  and  told  it  all  over  to  folks 
the  way  I've  told  it  to  you.  He  couldn't  stand  that 
story,  could  he?  I  could  break  him  in  two  just  like  he 
broke  me  in  two.  I  could  give  him  back  them  kind  of 
days  that  I  had  when  I  used  to  set  and  bite  my  nails 
down,  thinking  I  didn't  have  her  any  more  or  nothing, 
and  feeling  of  the  woollen  in  a  striped  suit  and  walking 
lockstep  with  a  tin  cup  in  my  hand,  and  dreaming  at 
night  of  that  cat  that  used  to  set  on  the  fence  on  spring 
days,  and  thinking  I  smelled  the  perfume  that  woman 
used. 

"Well,  gents,"  he  says,  after  a  minute,  waiting  and 
looking  around  on  all  sides  of  the  red  wagon,  "  what '11  it 
be  ?  I've  waited  seven  years  for  this.  What'll  it  be  — 
the  gun  or  the  finger?  Which?" 

Everybody  kinder  looked  back  at  him  for  a  minute. 
The  crowd  moved  a  little  this  side  and  that  like  butter 
beans  boiling  in  a  kettle.  I  don't  suppose  anybody'd 
dared  to  go  away.  It  would  looked  like  they  was  the 
man  who  was  guilty.  I  couldn't  see  Carter  Elmore's 
face.  He'd  turned  his  back. 


324  JIM  HANDS 

"Well,  gents,"  says  the  perfesser,  "I  ain't  anybody 
much  —  just  a  talker.  But  I  can  give  up  the  gun  and 
this  here  finger  and  point  it  and  wreck  him.  And  I 
want  to  know  what's  right.  I  always  thought  I'd  know 
when  the  time  had  come,  but  I've  got  to  ask  now. 
Shall  I  take  this  here  finger,"  he  says,  "and  point  it, 
or  shall  I  shut  my  mouth  ?  I'm  asking,  gents,"  he  says. 

"Point  him  out!"  yells  Dave  Pierson.  "Point  him 
out !  We'll  run  him  outer  this -town."  And  it  seemed 
like  it  started  everybody.  You  could  hear  'em  growling 
kinder  soft  and  mean,  like  ugly  collie  dogs,  and  even 
Father  Ryan  beside  me  kinder  choked  in  his  throat, 
and  I  seen  a  look  on  his  face  I  ain't  ever  seen  but  twice. 

"Of  course,  the  only  trouble,"  says  the  perfesser, 
playing  with  his  coat  buttons,  "is  that  none  of  you 
fellers  knew  him  or  the  little  woman  that  ran  away  from 
her  husband.  I  guess  I'd  answer  the  way  you  do  if  I 
hadn't  been  a  part  of  this.  But,"  he  says,  just  as  if  he 
was  talking  to  himself,  "it's  funny  how  little  things  come 
back  now,  ain't  it?  I  used  to  be  mighty  fond  of  that 
Rayworth.  Once  he  and  I  went  off  shooting  together, 
and  we  used  to  take  lunches  together  days  when  I  could 
get  around  to  it.  And  of  course  you  have  to  like  a 
man  pretty  well  to  see  him  at  breakfast  and  dinner  and 
then  go  to  lunch  with  him,  too.  I  remember  he  bought 
me  a  box  of  cigars  one  time.  I  kinder  knew  it  was  a 
question  whether  he  should  spend  the  money  on  himself 
or  me,  and  I  was  tickled  to  death  with  'em.  I  liked  him. 


JIM  HANDS  325 

He  was  always  talking  about  what  we  oughter  do  and 
how  in  years  to  come  we'd  take  a  trip  to  Europe  together. 
He's  right  there  amongst  you  now.  He  knows  it's  true. 
Of  course,  it  ain't  saying  much,  but  I  guess  he  was  the 
best  friend  I  ever  had. 

"  And  then  there  was  her,  wherever  she  may  be  now," 
he  says.  "I  remember  how  much  she  cared  about  my 
orders.  Why,  she  used  to  take  my  order-book  and 
look  it  over,  and  when  I'd  made  a  big  sale,  she  was  just 
as  glad  as  if  she'd  done  it  herself.  And  I  remember 
how  her  laugh  used  to  sound.  And  I've  always 
wondered  if  it  sounds  the  same  now.  You  see,  gents, 
she  had  a  nice  way  about  her,  and  tried  so  hard  to  help 
me  different  ways  and  plan  so  we  could  save  money. 
I  guess  I  never  loved  anybody  much  but  her.  I  know  I 
used  to  tell  her  I'd  sacrifice  anything  for  her  sake.  I 
guess  I  was  mighty  fond  of  her,"  says  he. 

With  that  he  run  his  hand  down  into  his  collar  again. 
And  then  he  commenced  to  play  with  the  boxes  of  salve 
just  as  if  he  was  kinder  embarrassed  and  ashamed.  And 
by  and  by  he  looked  up  again,  and  everybody  was 
watching  him  till  their  eyes  hurt  'em  and  burned  with 
staring. 

"Well,  gents,"  says  he,  "I  guess  you  must  be  right. 
I  oughter  point  my  finger  and  wreck  him.  It's  justice, 
I  guess.  But  I  ain't  never  been  anything  but  a  talker. 
Perhaps  if  I  was  different,  I'd  do  what- 1  planned.  But 
I've  always  been  kinder  easy  about  things,  and  I  was 


326  JIM  HANDS 

fond  of  her  and  him,  and  I  guess  anybody'd  say  I  was 
weak  and  foolish  now.  By  and  by  he  will  go  home  with 
the  rest  of  you.  I  ain't  going  to  point  him  out.  Maybe 
that  girl  that  ran  away  with  him  wouldn't  want  me  to 
do  it.  It  might  bring  shame  on  her,  too.  I  can't  tell. 
Anyhow,  I  kinder  like  to  think  of  her  the  way  it  used 
to  be,  and  if  I  did  her  any  harm  now  I  wouldn't  want  to 
think  of  it  any  more,"  he  says. 

With  that  he  put  his  hat  on,  kinder  slow,  and  wrinkled 
his  nose  again  and  let  them  eye-glasses  drop  into  place  on 
his  nose.  Then  all  of  a  sudden,  while  the  crowd  was  so 
still,  he  went  back  to  his  singsong  voice. 

" Gents,"  he  says,  "how's  that  fora  story  —  told  for 
a  little  fun  and  amusement  about  an  average  man?" 
he  says.  "And  now,"  he  says,  dipping  his  hands  into 
the  basin  of  water,  "if  you'll  give  me  your  kind  atten 
tion,  I'll  show  you  a  marvellous  new  discovery.  I'm 
about  to  wash  my  hands  in  this  here  basin,  using  ordi 
nary  water  just  as  it  runs  out  from  your  faucet,  water 
spigot,  or  garden  hose  at  home,  gents.  Move  up  here 
a  little  closer,  and  before  I  give  my  second  demonstra 
tion  of  Smith's  Twelve-Horse-Power  Flake  I'll  offer  a 
few  more  of  the  Suwanee  Snake  Salve,  used  by  the  court 
beauties  of  France  for  over  a  century,  together  with  a 
genuine  California  diamond  scarf-pin.  This  here  salve 
removes  blemishes  of  each  and  every  kind.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  expose  the  surface  of  the  skin,  just  like  I  do 
now  by  drawing  back  my  sleeve,  and  take  a  little  salve 


JIM  HANDS  327 

on  your  fingers  and  rub  it  on  the  spot.  So  simple 
that  a  mere  child  can  use  it." 

Right  then  I  felt  Father  Ryan's  hand  grab  my  sleeve. 

"What  is  it?"   says  I. 

"Look  at  his  arm,"  says  the  old  man,  kinder  husky. 
"There's  a  tattoo  on  it  —  a  picture  of  a  ship,"  he  says, 
and  pulled  at  my  sleeve  again.  "He  was  the  boy  that 
went  to  jail." 

And  so  we  walks  away. 

Father  Ryan  and  I  went  down  toward  the  south  end 
of  Main  Street,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  said 
anything.  There  was  just  the  sound  of  our  feet. 

"Well,"  he  says  at  last,  "winter's  coming  fast,"  he 
says,  "and  though  the  trouble  between  the  men  and 
Harvey  has  driven  a  lot  of  them  away,  there'll  be  suffer 
ing  here  among  them  who  is  left,"  he  says.  "It  will 
be  hard  on  the  girls  —  them  who  has  no  one  to  take 
care  of  them  or  homes  to  go  back  to,"  he  says. 

"So  it  will,"  I  says.  "But  there  ain't  a  great  many 
of  them." 

"Like  that  Villet  girl  I  once  tried  to  reason  with," 
he  says.  "Do  you  know,  Jim,"  he  says,  "I  heard  there 
was  some  trouble  about  her.  I  heard  she  had  left 
town." 

"She  did,"  I  says,  "and  didn't  take  but  few  of  her 
things  with  her,  for,  as  you  know,  she  was  living  at  my 
house,  and  she  must  have  been  ashamed  to  face  us  for 
some  reason  or  other,"  I  says,  looking  at  his  face  in  the 


328  JIM  HANDS 

light  from  one  of  the  street-lamps.     I  wanted  to  see  if 
he  knew  anything  about  the  matter. 

But  he  only  cleared  his  throat,  for  the  air  was  kinder 
sharp,  and  says,  "Why,  I'd  forgotten.  She  was  at  your 
house  for  a  while,  wasn't  she?"  he  says.  "She's  come 
back,  I  see,"  he  says. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

"ANNE  VILLET!"  I  says,  roaring  out  the  name, 
"come  back!" 

' '  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  says.  ' '  Certainly 
I  seen  her.  I  seen  her  yesterday.  And  to-night  she 
was  standing  just  outside  the  crowd  we  were  in.  She 
must  be  no  better  in  health,"  he  says.  "She  was  there, 
and  her  face  was  the  color  of  lemon  sherbet,"  he  says, 
"and  her  eyes  was  very  wild,  I  thought,  and  she  seemed 
^'ck  and  very  weak,"  says  he.  "She  looked  like  one  of 
the  dead  that  had  come  back  to  make  trouble  for  the 
living,"  he  says. 

It  was  on  my  tongue  then  to  say  something  that 
would  have  given  him  the  whole  story,  but  I  shut  my 
teeth  on  the  words  and  swallowed  'em  and  says,  "I'm 
surprised  to  hear  it,"  I  says.  "And  I  think  I'll  leave 
you  now,  for  I  must  be  getting  home,"  I  says. 

"You  may  be  going  home,"  he  says,  "but  you  act  as  if 
you  was  going  because  the  house  was  on  fire,"  he  says. 
"Good  night,"  he  says,  "anyhow." 

I  hadn't  gone  many  steps  before  I  felt  one  of  them 
occasions  had  come  for  oaths,  and  I  ripped  out  a  few 
round,  full-grown  ones  beneath  my  breath.  I  had 

329 


330  JIM  HANDS 

misjudged  the  distance.  Father  Ryan  heard  me,  and 
he  called  to  me. 

"Come  back  a  minute,"  he  says. 

"I'm  sorry  you  heard  them  words/'  I  says.  "I  was 
thinking  evil  and  trying  to  expel  it  from  my  system," 
says  I,  with  a  grin. 

But  he  was  scowling  and  looked  stern.  "Jim,"  he 
says,  very  solemn,  "I  can't  forbear  to  censure  you," 
says  he.  ' '  You  may  need  that  stuff  sometime/ '  he  says, 
"and  it's  a  shame  to  waste  it  now,"  and  with  that  he 
laughed  one  of  them  laughs  of  his  and  says,  "I  guess  I 
was  never  born  to  be  a  priest,"  he  says.  "Go  on  with 
you !  And  good  night  again,"  he  says. 

I  hurried  back  to  the  house.  "This  time  it's  me  that 
has  the  news,"  I  kept  saying  to  myself,  and  climbing 
Maple  Street  I  took  most  of  my  breath  and  was  puffing 
and  blowing  when  I  got  to  the  door-step. 

Annie  must  have  heard  my  foot  on  the  gravel,  for  she 
opened  the  door  for  me. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  I  says. 

"Oh,  Jim,  dear!"  she  says,  having  the  advantage  of 
breath  over  me.  "I  don't  want  to  hear  any  small 
gossip,"  she  says.  "I  must  tell  you/'  she  says,  "Anne 
Villet  is  back  in  town." 

"When  did  you  hear  it?"  I  says. 

"To-night,"  says  she.  "And  nothing  would  do  for 
Katherine  but  to  go  out  and  look  for  her,"  she  says. 

"To  bring  her  here  ?  "  I  asks. 


JIM  HANDS  331 

"Katherine  would  have  it  no  other  way,"  says  she. 
"We  must  have  no  scene,  Jim/'  she  says,  hanging  up 
my  coat. 

But  there  was  no  chance  for  one.  I  remember  how 
plain  it  appeared  when  the  daughter  came  in  with  that 
other  woman.  Katherine  was  almost  holding  Anne  up. 
She  was  thinner  and  whiter  and  I  thought  harder  than 
ever.  But  she  was  weak,  like  a  grape-vine  when  you  take 
its  trellis  away.  Katherine  is  strong,  but  she  could 
hardly  keep  the  poor  thing  from  falling  over.  And  my 
Annie  ran  to  get  the  whiskey  from  the  top  shelf  of  the 
medicine  closet. 

Once  or  twice  Anne  Villet  tried  to  speak,  and  Kather 
ine  whispered  to  me  that  if  we  didn't  take  her  upstairs 
and  put  her  to  bed,  she  might  die.  "I  found  her  at 
Mrs.  Riordan's,"  says  she,  "and  she  acts  like  some  one 
in  a  trance,"  says  she. 

And  so  we  took  her  to  a  bed,  and  Annie  and  Katherine 
came  down  after  they  had  undressed  her  and  she  had 
turned  over  to  lie  face  downward  on  the  pillow.  And 
the  three  of  us  looked  at  each  other.  And  maybe  we 
wondered  at  life. 

It  couldn't  have  been  much  after  six  o'clock  that 
morning  when  I  heard  the  Villet  woman  call  Katherine. 
The  day  hadn't  any  more  than  broke,  and  it  was  cold 
enough  to  make  me  hurry  into  my  clothes  and  go  down 
to  build  a  fire.  Annie  and  Katherine  had  come  down, 
too,  shivering  around  the  stove  before  it  had  any  more 


332  JIM  HANDS 

warmth  in  it  than  you  could  imagine  by  just  hearing  the 
snapping  of  the  wood  and  smelling  the  burning  news 
paper.  And  then  we  heard  her  call  Katherine  again, 
and  we  all  went  upstairs. 

She  had  the  same  wild  look  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was 
leaning  up  on  one  of  her  thin  elbows.  When  she  saw  the 
three  of  us  in  the  door,  she  says,  with  a  rough  laugh : 
"I  must  get  up.  I've  got  to  go.  Oh,  you're  all  good 
to  me,"  she  says.  "I  couldn't  think  last  night,"  she 
says.  "But  now  I've  got  to  go !" 

"Go?"  says  Katherine,  as  if  she  would  stop  her. 
"Go  where?" 

"Go  to  him,"  says  she.  "Go  and  throw  myself  in  the 
dirt  in  front  of  where  he  stands,"  she  says,  pulling  at  the 
blankets  with  her  bony  hands. 

"To  Robert  Harvey?"  asks  my  Annie,  in  a  frightened 
voice. 

"What!  that  young  fool?"  says  the  Villet  girl. 
"No,  to  my  husband,"  she  says. 

"Husband!"   cries  Katherine,  "husband!" 

"Yes,"  says  Anne,  with  her  mouth  working.  "You 
seen  him, "  she  says,  turning  to  me.  ' '  Say  so !  Say  you 
seen  him!  It  weren't  a  dream.  Say  you  seen  him!" 

"Who?  "  says  I,  being  afraid  of  her. 

"The  professor!"  she  screams.  "My  God,  it  was 
him  !  Whoever  would  think  the  three  of  us  would  come 
together  again  ?  The  Lord  has  played  a  trick  on  us,"  she 
says. 


JIM  HANDS  333 

"And  you  was  the  woman ! "  I  says. 

"Yes,"  she  says.  "What  am  I  saying?  It's  out 
now.  Yes,  that  was  me.  And  to  hear  him  tell  about 
the  picket  fence  out  there  in  Chicago  -  Tell  me  I  ain't 
crazy/'  she  says,  holding  out  one  hand  to  me.  "You 
heard  him  ?  You  saw  him  ?  " 

But  I  only  gave  a  yell.  "Then  it  wasn't  Harvey?" 
I  roars  at  her.  "It  was  Carter  Elmore?" 

The  ratty  look  came  into  her  eyes  again  —  the  old 
suspicious  look,  and  she  turned  it  on  me  and  then  on 
Katherine  and  then  on  Annie. 

' '  What's  that  to  you  ?  "  she  says,  looking  at  me  again. 
"To-day  I'll  be  gone,  whatever  happens,"  she  says,  "and 
you'll  never  see  me  again,"  says  she,  with  her  teeth 
shut.  "It  ain't  anything  to  you  !"  she  says. 

It  was  then  Katherine  went  over  to  the  bed  and 
caught  hold  of  the  Villet  woman's  trembling  hand. 
"Listen,"  she  says,  in  a  soft  voice,  and  plucking  at  the 
neck  of  her  dress  as  if  it  choked  her.  "Listen,  Anne," 
she  says.  "It's  everything  to  me." 

The  other  woman  turned  sort  of  slow  and  looked  up  at 
her.  Maybe  she  read  the  whole  thing  in  Katherine's 
face,  for  all  of  a  sudden  she  caught  the  girl's  dress  and 
says:  "It  can't  be  true.  You  mean  that  you  and  Bob 
Harvey  -  Then  she  stopped  and  looked  up  at 
Katherine  again,  and  Katherine  nodded. 

I  seen  a  look  of  fright  come  into  the  Villet  woman's 
face.  I'd  never  seen  it  before.  I'd  never  seen  her 


334  JIM  HANDS 

frightened  at  anything.  And  then  I  seen  her  fall  back 
on  the  bed  and  bury  her  face,  and  she  says,  "I  wish  I'd 
never  been  born,"  and  she  cried.  And  that  was  another 
thing  I'd  never  seen  her  do. 

When  she  got  up  on  to  her  elbow  again,  she  took 
Katherine's  hand  and  pressed  it  against  her  cheek. 
"I  never  meant  to  do  any  harm  to  you,"  she  says. 
"I  never  knew.  You  believe  it,  Katherine?  I  never 
knew,"  she  says. 

"Then  tell  me!"  cries  my  girl.  "Tell  me!  It 
wasn't  him?" 

"No,"  says  Anne  Villet.  "It  wasn't  him.  It  was 
Carter  Elmore." 

And  I've  had  to  laugh  about  it  since,  for  Katherine 
turned  on  her  mother  and  me  like  a  wild  thing. 
"There !"  she  says.  "I've  told  you  all  along  it  wasn't 
so!" 

"Wait, Katherine,"  Anne  says, and  her  voice  was  very 
tired;  "I'll  tell  you,"  and  she  sat  up  in  bed. 

"But  it  was  Bob  you  saw  out  the  window  that  night." 

"No!"  I  says.  "Why  didn't  I  think  of  it  before? 
It  was  the  Boss's  son-in-law  she  saw,"  I  says.  "He  had 
come  up  to  find  his  wife,"  I  says.  "It  was  the  night 
Carrie  Pierson  was  going  to  run  away,"  I  says. 

"Oh,"  says  Anne  Villet,  "it  is  very  simple,"  she  says. 
"I  had  to  have  something  —  money  or  something.  I 
was  restless  here.  I  couldn't  stand  it!"  she  says. 
And  then  a  fit  of  coughing  caught  her,  and  she  pressed 
her  hand  against  her  chest. 


JIM  HANDS  335 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  "I  went  down  there  to  cause  trouble. 
It  was  his  wife  who  met  me  at  the  door.  And  then  this 
other  came  out  —  the  Boss's  son.  I  guess  he  seen 
what  I'd  come  for.  He  took  me  out  under  the  trees  on 
the  lawn,"  she  says.  "I  guess  I  talked  pretty  excited 
and  straight  to  him,  and  he  pointed  back  to  the  house 
and  told  me  that  the  woman  I'd  seen  was  his  sister,  and 
that  if  I  made  trouble  it  would  ruin  her  life,"  she  says. 

"Oh!"  says  Katherine,  with  a  little  cry  like  women 
make. 

The  Villet  girl  smiled  then  —  a  sort  of  a  sour  smile. 
"Well,"  says  she,  "I  asked  him  what  it  was  worth  to 
have  me  go  away,  and  I  watched  his  face  in  the  moon 
light.  And  he  said  he'd  do  anything  to  protect  his 
sister,"  she  says,  "and  I  told  him  it  was  money,  —  that 
was  all,  —  money,  —  money  or  some  trouble.  He  was 
young,  and  I  knew  I  could  frighten  him." 

"So  he  agreed? "  says  my  Annie,  with  her  eyes  and 
mouth  open. 

"Yes,"  says  the  Villet  woman.  "He  wanted  me  to 
wait  a  day.  He  was  all  excited.  But  I  was  afraid  of 
a  trick.  I  told  him  it  would  have  to  be  a  cash  trade," 
she  says,  "that  night.  And  he  asked  what  people 
would  think,  and  I  told  him  he  might  have  to  take  the 
blame  some  day  for  just  such  another  as  me,  and  the 
practice  would  do  him  good,  and  I  laughed  at  him," 
she  says. 

I  seen  Katherine  draw  her  hand  away  then  and  look 


336  JIM  HANDS 

at  Anne  Villet  the  way  I'd  look  at  a  rattlesnake,  and 
then  I  seen  her  face  change  and  I  seen  her  put  her  hand 
back  in  the  other  woman's. 

"That  was  all,"  says  Anne  Villet.  "He  was  bun 
gling — the  way  he  went  at  it,"  she  says,  "but  he  got  the 
money  by  telegraph,  trying  to  keep  the  thing  quiet. 
So  I  didn't  care.  He  hadn't  any  wife,  and  I  supposed 
that  he  would  tell  his  father  the  secret  and  square  him 
self,"  she  says.  "And  may  I  be  struck  dead,  Katherine, 
if  I  knew  that  I  was  doing  harm  to  you,"  she  says. 

After  a  minute  she  looked  up  at  my  girl  again  and 
seen  her  thinking.  "What's  the  matter?"  she  says. 
"Don't  you  believe  me  ?  Mr.  Hands,"  she  says,  turning 
to  me,  "did  anybody  find  a  little  picture  I  dropped 
when  I  left  here?" 

I  remembered  it  in  a  second,  and  I  went  up  the  ladder 
into  the  attic  and  opened  the  bag  she  had  left,  and  there 
was  the  picture  looking  up  at  me  again.  So  I  took  it 
down  and  gave  it  to  her  and  she  gave  it  to  Katherine. 
And  my  girl  cried  right  out,  "It's  Elmore!  It  is! 
It  is!" 

"Turn  it  over,"  says  Anne  Villet,  in  her  croaking 
voice. 

So  Katherine  turned  it  over,  and  there  was  the 
words,  "To  Anne  from  C.  E.,  April  fifth,"  in  a  fine 
hand  on  the  back. 

And  she  looked  at  the  front  of  it  and  at  the  back  of  it, 
and  says  to  Anne,  "Don't  worry,"  the  same  as  she  wrote 


JIM  HANDS  337 

it  for  us  once  on  a  card  —  and  she  went  across  the 
hall  with  never  a  word,  and  me  and  my  Annie  watching 
her,  and  went  into  her  room  and  shut  the  door. 

I  guess  it  must  have  been  an  hour  later  that  Anne 
Villet  came  down.  I  never  thought  anything  of  it  when 
she  kind  of  strolled  out  the  door.  I  don't  suppose  I'd 
ever  have  known  what  had  happened  to  her  if  I  hadn't 
gone  out  to  close  the  hay  door  in  the  loft  of  the  barn. 
And  just  as  I  was  going  to  pull  it  in  I  seen  the  question- 
mark  —  the  question-mark  on  the  wagon. 

I  hadn't  thought  of  the  perfesser.  But  there  was  his 
old  white  horse  with  his  ears  still  hanging  down,  dragging 
the  red  wagon  up  the  hill.  And  I  seen  Anne  Villet  walk 
out  from  the  patch  of  bushes  halfway  up  to  the  top. 
She  must  have  been  on  the  watch  for  him  —  waiting. 

I  just  barely  heard  his  voice  when  he  said  "Whoa  "  to 
the  old  horse,  and  the  creak  of  the  wheels  stopped.  The 
two  of  'em  was  a  long  way  off.  They  looked  like  a  man 
and  woman  talking  about  the  price  of  a  dozen  eggs. 
But  finally  he  moved  over,  and  she  climbed  up  and  sat 
down  beside  him  just  like  somebody  who  has  been  given 
a  lift  on  a  butcher  cart. 

And  then  I  seen  her  and  the  perfesser  for  the  last  time. 

He  pushed  down  the  big  cotton  umbrella  and  stood  up 

on  the  seat,  with  the  sun  shining  on  his  fake  eye-glasses, 

until  the  outfit  had  dropped  outer  sight  over  the  ridge 

-  looking  back  at  the  town. 

Katherine  came  down  from  her  room  long  after  her 


338  JIM  HANDS 

breakfast  was  cold  on  the  table  and  after  little  Michael 
and  John  had  gone  to  school.  Her  mother  had  said  it 
was  best  to  leave  the  girl  alone,  and  that  she  would  keep 
the  coffee,  and  tell  her,  after  she  had  had  some  food  and  a 
hot  cup,  how  Anne  Villet  had  gone  away. 

When  I  came  in,  Katherine  looked  up  at  me,  and  her 
eyes  was  all  alive. 

"We're  going  on  a  walk  together,"  she  says  to  me. 

"Where?  "says  I. 

"To  the  Boss's  house,"  she  says.  "I  have  a  few 
things  to  tell  him,"  she  says,  "and  I  want  my  father 
with  me,"  she  says,  putting  her  hand  on  mine.  It  was 
as  warm  as  the  bowl  of  my  pipe. 

"No  !"  says  I,  very  firm.  "If  the  Boss  wants  any 
thing  from  us,  let  him  come  here  —  to  my  house  —  and 
ask  for  it,"  I  says.  "It's  different  now,"  I  says.  "We 
can  be  aristocratic  with  him,"  I  says. 

A  funny  little  smile  came  into  her  face,  and  I  seen 
them  two  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth  twitch.  "Oh, 
let's  be  nice  to  him,"  says  she,  pulling  at  my  coat. 
"It's  only  the  real  aristocrats  that  can  afford  not  to  act 
so,"  she  says. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "there's  no  use  arguing  with  you,"  I 
says.  "I'll  go  up  and  change  my  clothes,"  I  says. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  says.  "Wear  what  you  have.  There 
is  no  need  of  being  particular,"  she  says,  laughing. 
So  I  put  on  my  hat  and  we  walked  down  to  Main  Street 
and  across  the  Common. 


JIM  HANDS  339 

We  met  him,  as  luck  would  have  it,  on  the  driveway, 
and  you  could  tell  by  the  look  that  came  into  his  face 
that  he  knew  she  had  some  real  thing  to  tell  him,  even 
before  she  said  so.  I  can  remember  now  how  the  two 
of  them  walked  back  and  forth  under  them  horse- 
chestnut  trees  that  had  shed  all  the  leaves. 

It  had  grown  very  cold,  and  the  sky  was  clouded  over, 
and  I  had  to  stamp  my  feet  to  keep  them  warm.  And  I 
watched  my  girl  with  her  clear  eyes  and  soft  skin  and  the 
old  man  with  his  baggy  trousers  and  gray  hair.  After 
a  while  I  seen  him  stop  and  wave  his  hand  as  if  he 
weren't  satisfied,  and  then  I  seen  her  hand  him  the  little 
picture  with  the  words  on  the  back  of  it. 

When  that  happened,  he  went  up  to  one  of  the  trees 
and  begun  picking  off  pieces  of  bark,  and  then  he 
looked  up  and  down  the  trunk  as  if  he  was  trying  to 
count  up  the  board  feet  in  it.  And  then  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  after  a 
minute  he  said,  so  I  could  hear  him,  "By  George !  I'll 
go  and  telegraph  for  my  boy !" 

He  was  walking  toward  me  then,  and  I  saw  him  turn 
and  look  at  the  girl  beside  him.  After  a  while  he  spoke 
again. 

"Miss  Hands,"  he  said,  "I  guess  —  I  rather  guess, 
my  boy  and  I  owe  you  a  great  deal.  You  have  put 
him  back  in  his  place.  You  have  preserved  his  friends 
and  his  reputation  for  him  —  and  some  of  his  self- 
respect,  maybe.  You  have  restored  him  to  me,"  he 


340  JIM  HANDS 

says,  speaking  like  a  man  who  forgets  that  anybody  is 
listening  to  him.  "You  have  taught  us  something  of 
loyalty  —  and  a  hell  of  a  lot  about  womanhood." 

And  then  it  was  that  Katherine  gave  a  little  laugh, 
"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  says.  "You  are  very  kind," 
she  says. 

"Well,"  says  he,  "come  to  think  of  it,  that's  a  pretty 
good  boy!" 

"It's  true!"  says  Katherine.  "Of  course,"  she  says, 
"I  come  from  very  simple  people,"  she  says,  with  her 
eyes  dancing,  "but  I've  thought  so  for  a  long  time,"  she 
says.  And  she  bowed  to  him  and  came  to  me,  leaving 
him  there  following  her  with  his  eyes,  and  I  seen  a  funny 
kind  of  smile  slide  down  over  his  face. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THAT  was  on  Tuesday.  On  Wednesday  there  was  a 
meeting  of  the  labor-union  that  everybody  will  remem 
ber.  There  wasn't  so  much  talking,  but  everybody 
looked  a  heap.  Dave  Kennedy  read  a  letter  from  the 
central  union  saying  how  they'd  found  it  impossible  to 
add  anything  to  our  strike  fund,  but  how  we  ought  to 
stick  it  out  and  have  courage,  and  another  from  the 
owner  of  Masonic  Hall,  saying  how  the  rent  due  from 
our  union  for  the  use  of  the  hall  hadn't  been  paid.  We 
took  a  vote,  and  you  could  tell  how  bull-dog  the  men  felt 
because  two  hundred  of  'em  were  for  holding  out  against 
the  Boss,  when  every  man  of  'em  had  already  been  up 
against  being  busted  and  hungry. 

And  then  Bill  Gaylor  came  in,  looking  red  and  out  of 
breath.  Seems  to  me  I  can  see  him  now  as  he  stood 
there  in  the  door,  and  says  in  a  kind  of  dull  voice,  but 
so's  everybody  could  hear,  "The  factory's  for  sale !  " 

Dave  caught  the  edges  of  the  table.  "What?"  says 
he. 

"The  factory's  for  sale,"  says  Bill,  pushing  his  way  up 
through  the  men  —  some  of  'em  had  jumped  up  and 
were  standing,  and  some  of  'em  had  kind  of  slumped 
back  on  the  settees  —  "  there's  a  big  white  sign  on  the 
side  next  the  railroad!" 

341 


342  JIM  HANDS 

A  good  many  of  us  pushed  each  other  for  a  place  at  the 
back  windows,  where  you  get  could  a  look  at  the  tracks 
and  the  covered  bridge,  and  I  tell  you  I  never  felt  so 
curious  as  when  I  seen  that  sign  smashing  me  between 
the  eyes.  It  looked  like  the  finish  of  my  little  home  and 
the  whole  business,  and  I  felt  like  a  feller  that  gets 
thrown  overboard  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean,  and  has 
his  woman  and  kids  thrown  overboard,  too.  You 
could  tell  by  the  look  of  the  others  that  it  weren't  any 
different  with  them. 

" Gentlemen,"  says  Dave,  "we  are  up  against  the 
real  thing  now.  Of  course  we  don't  know  what  the  Boss 
is  going  to  do,  but  I  suggest  that  we  send  a  committee 
to  him  to  find  out.  Then  if  we  —  we  are  up  against  the 
finish  of  this  fight  now  —  if  we  have  to  compromise  — " 

At  that  Bill  Gaynor  came  up  like  the  fur  on  a  mad 
cat's  tail.  ' '  Compromise  nothing ! "  he  yells,  his  eyes  red 
with  liquor  or  fever  or  something.  "I'll  not  compro 
mise  !  We  can  beat  him  out  if  we  have  to  cut  our  own 
throats  to  do  it.  We  can  burn  the  factory ! " 

A  feller  next  to  me,  whose  wife  was  sick,  kind  of 
tightened  his  hands  and  leaned  forward,  looking  into  the 
air,  and  says,  "Yes,"  and  two  or  three  others  yelled, 
"You're  right !"  but  the  rest  of  us  jumped  up,  yelling, 
"No,  no,  none  of  that !"  and  three  of  us  were  appointed 
to  go  and  see  the  Boss  and  report  that  evening.  I  was 
one  of  'em. 

We  went  straight  up  there  and  rang  the  bell  on  the  big 


JIM  HANDS  343 

front  door,  and  the  Boss's  pretty  daughter  opened  it. 
"Tell  him  there  are  three  of  his  hands  that  want  to  see 
him,  miss,"  says  I. 

"Why,"  says  she,  "he  told  me  to  say  that  he  can't 
see  the  use  of  talk,  since  you  have  your  minds  made  up." 

I  caught  sight  of  two  trunks  in  the  hall  that  looked  as 
if  they  was  ready  to  go  somewhere,  and  it  was  a  jar  — 
like  the  sign  on  the  factory ! 

"Please,  miss,  tell  him  we  want  to  see  him  —  bad," 
says  Henderson,  who  stood  back  of  me. 

"Step  in,"  says  she;  "he's  in  there  in  the  library." 

The  Boss  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  reading  a  book, 
and  he  looks  up  and  smiles.  ' '  Howdy  do,  Jim  ?  Howdy 
do,  Joe?"  and  then  he  scowls  and  says,  "I  thought  I'd 
never  be  bothered  about  this  factory  business  any  more." 

"Have  you  shut  it  down  for  good?"  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  he,  kinder  thoughtful ;  "the  business  was 
a  habit  with  me,  I  guess,  and  I  don't  know  but  what  it 
was  a  poor  habit.  I  got  so  into  the  habit  of  running  that 
business  that  when  you  fellers  forced  me  to  quit  I  felt 
for  a  few  days  like  an  old  smoker  who  has  run  out  of 
tobacco  on  a  desert  island.  I'd  thought  of  quitting  long 
ago,  but  habit  kept  me  going.  But  that's  all  over  now 
-all  the  worry  and  the  care  and  fret  and  fuss.  The 
load  is  off  my  mind  now ! " 

Well,  you'd  be  surprised  to  see  the  way  Henderson's 
jaw  dropped  till  his  under  lip  looked  like  a  hammock, 
and  I  guess  Joe  and  I  had  the  pop  eyes. 


344  JIM  HANDS 

"  Yes,"  says  the  Boss,  motioning  for  us  to  sit  down  in 
a  kind  of  careless  way.  "There's  been  a  clover  patch 
waiting  for  me,  and  I  never  saw  it  till  a  week  ago.  I've 
run  this  factory  now  for  a  good  many  years,  and  I've 
got  a  nice  roly-poly  little  income,  so  what's  the  use  of 
my  slaving  away  in  this  muddy  little  one-horse  town 
till  I  slam  the  door  of  this  life  behind  me  ?  I  haven't 
much  money  to  leave  to  my  boy,  and  I  consider  that's 
lucky  for  him ;  and  my  youngest  daughter  will  probably 
marry  a  man  who  is  smart  enough  always  to  make  it 
comfortable  for  her.  So  now  I've  come  to  a  breathing 
spell.  I'm  going  to  Europe  for  a  good  rest,  and  when  I 
get  back  I'm  going  to  settle  down  in  the  city  where  I 
can  rub  elbows  with  something  else  besides  a  lot  of 
jobbers,  buyers,  and  supply  salesmen." 

The  Boss  didn't  seem  to  be  talking  to  us  at  all,  but 
just  to  himself,  but  I  was  thinking  some,  and  everything 
looked  pretty  black. 

"What'll  become  of  the  men?"  says  I,  like  that. 
"For  God's  sake,  what'll  we  do  —  we  that  has  got  homes 
here  and  kids  ?  What'll  happen  to  this  town  ?  " 

"I'd  thought  of  that,"  says  the  Boss,  "and  you  can 
believe  me  or  not,  I'm  mighty  sorry  for  the  men.  An 
industry  like  that  factory  isn't  run  for  the  man  that  owns 
it  —  altogether.  It's  run  for  the  laborers,  too,  and  the 
town,  and,  in  fact,  if  it's  a  good  industry,  it's  run  for  the 
good  of  the  whole  country.  Yes,  I've  realized  that  all 
along.  But  I'm  selfish  now.  I'm  out  for  a  soft  snap  - 


JIM  HANDS  345 

Henderson  looked  kind  of  scared,  but  he  stopped  twirl 
ing  his  hat  and  got  up  out  of  his  chair. 

" Excuse  me,"  says  he,  "and  don't  understand  that 
there  are  many  of  us  feel  any  sympathy  with  it,  but 
there  are  a  few  hot-headed  ones  who  have  suffered  more 
than  the  rest  of  us  who  say  if  you  don't  do  something 
they'll  burn  the  factory." 

The  Boss  looked  up,  kind  of  squinting,  and  then  he 
brought  his  hand  down  on  his  knee  with  a  big  slap. 

"Good!"  says  he.  "I  don't  know  whether  the  in 
surance  would  cover  that  case  or  not,  but  I  don't  care  - 
I'd  be  glad  to  have  the  old  factory  out  of  the  way. 
It's  a  darned  old  monument  to  every  trouble  and  worry 
I  ever  had,  and  if  it  was  wiped  away  I'd  never  have  any 
temptation  to  come  back  to  it !" 

To  hear  the  Boss  talk  that  way  made  me  feel  sicker  and 
sicker,  and  I  could  see  my  finish  just  as  plain  as  I  can  see 
you.  I  was  looking  down  on  the  floor,  and  I  can  remem 
ber  the  pattern  on  that  carpet  just  as  well  as  I  can  re 
member  the  color  of  the  paint  on  my  father's  house,  and 
when  I  looked  up  the  Boss  had  his  keen  blue  eyes  on  me. 

He  shook  his  head:  "Poor  fellers,  poor  fellers,"  says 
he  to  himself,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  jumped  up 
straight.  "Say,  Jim,"  says  he,  "when  does  your  labor- 
union  have  its  next  meeting?" 

"To-night,"  says  I. 

"Jim,"  says  he,  "you  fellers  know  me.  You  know 
I  tell  the  truth  from  one  to  ten,  and  A  to  Z.  And  what 


346  JIM  HANDS 

I've  said  to  you  to-day  is  true.  You  go  back  and  tell 
'em  what  I  said,  and  tell  'em  that  if  they  want,  I'll  speak 
to  'em  to-night.  Tell  'em  that ! " 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  I. 

" Thanks,"  Henderson  says,  having  no  idea  what  he 
was  thanking  for,  and  he  and  Joe  and  I  went  out. 

"It  is  all  over  but  the  shouting,  I  guess,"  says  Joe,  in 
the  driveway.  But  I  was  too  sore  and  hard-pressed  to 
pass  words  with  him. 

A  good  many  of  the  men  knew  how  we  came  out  with 
the  Boss  before  the  meeting  that  night,  and  I  guess  a  lot 
of  'em  were  figuring  just  how  hard  it  would  hit  'em  to  pull 
up  and  get  out  of  town  and  look  for  a  job.  A  good 
many  of  'em,  like  me,  had  grown  pretty  deep  roots  here, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  there'd  be  a  good  deal  of  wilting 
before  we  could  get  set  into  a  new  flower-bed. 

It  made  your  feet  heavy  to  think  about  it,  and  you'd 
see  many  a  husky-looking  feller  who  would  scuffle  along 
without  the  heart  to  lift  his  shoes  off  the  ground.  Be 
sides,  it  had  clouded  up  to  snow,  and  everything  was 
dismal  —  awful  dismal !  It  didn't  make  much  differ 
ence  that  the  papers  said  we'd  forced  the  Boss  into  a 
corner  —  we'd  got  it!  That's  what  had  happened  to 
us! 

There  was  a  sorry-looking  gang  that  came  to  the 
meeting,  but  it  looked  like  the  last  round,  and  pretty 
near  everybody  came,  to  be  in  at  the  wind-up !  We'd 
begun  together,  and  I  guess  the  men  felt  as  if  we 


JIM  HANDS  347 

might  as  well  end  up  together.  And  besides,  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  curiosity  to  know  what  the  Boss  would  say 
if  he  got  the  chance. 

Dave  Kennedy  told  'em  all  what  I  had  reported,  and 
asked  for  a  show  of  hands  to  see  if  the  union  wanted  to 
send  for  the  old  man.  You  oughter  seen  the  hands 
come  up  —  just  like  a  field  of  wheat;  even  the  fellers 
who  looked  soggy  with  liquor  stuck  up  their  fists.  Dave 
grinned  kinder  sour  and  says,  "  Henderson  —  you're  near 
the  door  —  the  Boss  is  downstairs  in  the  drug  store." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

IT  was  a  sight  to  see  that  hall  crowded  full  of  men, 
with  their  faces  kinder  glued  on  the  doorway,  and  never 
making  hardly  the  sound  of  a  breath  when  the  Boss 
came  in  and  walked  through  'em  up  to  the  table,  but 
just  following  him  with  their  eyes. 

The  Boss  stood  up  there,  straight  and  stiff,  with  his 
overcoat  on,  and  little  specks  of  snow  that  hadn't  melted 
all  over  it,  and  sort  of  give  a  sigh  which  sounded  like  a 
shout,  the  hall  was  so  still. 

"When  I  built  my  factory  in  this  town,"  says  he 
slowly,  and  I  can  remember  every  word,  he  spoke  so 
slow,  "I  did  it  because  living  was  cheaper  here  than  in 
other  places  where  they  are  making  my  class  of  goods, 
and  because,  for  that  reason,  it  would  be  fair  to  pay 
lower  wages  than  they  pay  farther  down  the  State.  It 
was  my  policy  to  make  a  lot  of  goods  on  small  profits, 
and  never  shut  down  except  on  Sundays.  It  worked. 
It  made  me  as  much  money  as  I  ever  will  want  to  spend, 
it  built  up  this  town,  it  gave  what  I  believed  was  good, 
fair  wages  and  employment  to  over  three  hundred  men ; 
it  sent  out  an  honest  lot  of  goods.  That's  what  goes  to 
show  that  an  industry  is  a  good  thing  for  the  man  who 
owns  it,  the  men  who  work  in  it,  the  town  where  it  is 
run,  and  the  people  who  buy  its  product  - 

348 


JIM  HANDS  349 

He  sorter  stopped  and  listened  as  if  he  expected  some 
body  to  call  him  a  liar. 

"Now,  you  can  believe  it  or  not,"  says  he,  "but  if  I 
paid  higher  wages  to-day,  it  would  knock  out  the  whole 
foundation  of  the  industry.  Instead  of  being  a  blessing 
to  this  town  and  this  country,  it  would  be  a  mighty  bad 
thing.  It  would  cut  my  share  of  the  profits  way  down 
below  what  I  ought  to  get  for  the  skill  I  put  into  the 
business ;  it  would  tempt  me  to  make  a  dishonest  line  of 
goods ;  it  would  tend  to  raise  the  wages  of  the  factories 
down  the  State,  and  if  they  raised  their  wages,  they'd 
have  to  run  on  a  little  fine  strip  of  profit  that  would 
break  and  make  'em  fail  in  hard  times ;  it  would  drive 
men  of  brains,  who  expect  to  have  their  brains  pay  divi 
dends,  out  of  the  business.  That's  what  it  would  do." 

Some  of  the  men  shifted  their  feet,  and  a  good  many 
were  leaning  forward  to  listen,  and  the  Boss  went  on : 
"There  were  two  things  that  made  me  keep  on  with  this 
factory  after  it  had  made  me  enough  money  so's  I 
could  always  have  a  nice  comfortable  income  —  one 
thing  was  the  habit  of  making  money,  and  it's  a  good 
deal  stronger  habit  than  liquor,  and  I'm  just  as  fond  of 
money  as  anybody ;  and  the  other  was  a  kind  of  sneak 
ing  feeling  that  it  was  my  duty  to  keep  on.  I've  been 
thinkingof  it  since  I  stopped,  and  I  seen  now  that  as  long 
as  an  industry  is  a  good  one,  there  are  a  dozen  reasons, 
and  unselfish  reasons,  too,  why  it  shouldn't  ever  be 
allowed  to  stop.  If  I  had  stopped  on  my  own  account, 


350  JIM  HANDS 

I  would  have  deserved  to  be  hanged.  Just  think  what 
misery  it  would  have  caused  to  the  men  who  worked  for 
me,  and  who  had  settled  with  families  in  this  town !" 

Some  of  the  men  muttered,  and  one  feller  in  the  back 
of  the  hall,  said,  "You've  stopped,  haven't  you?" 

"No  !"  yells  the  Boss,  so  everybody  jumped.  "You 
stopped !  You  stopped  —  and  that's  why  I'm  going  to 
have  a  soft  snap,  that's  why  I'm  going  to  Europe,  and 
wash  my  hands  of  this,"  says  he.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
you,  I  would  have  stopped  long  ago.  If  you  would  have 
given  me  my  fair  profit  and  taken  yours,  we'd  been  run 
ning  to-day  ;  and  if  we  were  running,  it  would  be  because 
you  wanted  to  run,  not  because  I  wanted  to  run !  You're 
the  ones  who  stopped !  " 

"  No  !  "  yells  several  of  the  men,  standing  up.  "We 
want  to  run,  "and  then  everybody  scrambles  up  between 
the  settees,  yelling:  "  Yes  !  Yes  !  We  want  to  run  !  " 
and  the  feller  next  to  me  —  a  great  big  strapping  six- 
feet-four  —  bellows  out,  "  The  old  way !  the  old  way  I  " 
and  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"Oh,  you  want  to  run?  In  the  old  way?  With  the 
old  wages?"  cries  the  Boss,  with  a  smile  looking  like  the 
sunshine  on  a  patch  of  meadow. 

"With  the  Old  Boss  — the  Old  Boss!"  shouts  Dave, 
and  every  man  of  'em  takes  up  the  yell,  and  hands  was 
stuck  up  in  the  air  with  fingers  stretching.  And  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  it  got  so  quiet  you'd  think  you  were  alone 
there,  and  the  Boss  looks  around  with  his  eyes  kinder 


JIM  HANDS  351 

glistening  like  I  never  seen  'em  before,  and  he  says, 
talking  kinder  as  if  he'd  just  run  a  mile:  "No  more 
strikes  —  we  don't  need  'em  when  we  can  —  well,  we 
don't  need  'em.  The  factory  will  start  running  Monday." 

At  those  words  every  man  there  sorter  dropped  his 
shoulders  with  the  joy  of  it,  and  turned  his  head  down  a 
mite. 

"And,"  says  the  Boss,  "any  man  that  has  a  family,  or 
anybody  that's  sick,  just  come  to  me,  will  you  ?  We've 
got  to  patch  up  this  hole  that  has  been  punched  in  us." 

The  men  started  to  yell  out  what  they  had  bottled  up 
in  the  way  of  feelings  for  the  last  week,  and  the  Boss 
grabbed  his  hat  off  the  table  and  started  for  the  door. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped.  The  fire-bell  was  boom 
ing  out  in  the  tower  of  the  Opera  House  next  door, 
and  you  could  hear  people  hollering  along  the  street 
outside. 

"It's  the  factory !"  yells  a  feller,  and  we  could  see  the 
red  glow  out  the  back  windows  of  the  hall.  Somebody 
near  the  door  cries  out,  "The  storage  shed  is  what's 
going!"  and  the  Boss  jumps  up  on  a  chair.  "Jim!" 
he  yells,  "pick  out  seven  men  to  help  get  the  apparatus 
down  there;  the  rest  of  you  men  come  with  me." 

I'll  not  quickly  forget  that  night.  Most  anybody  in 
town  is  always  ready  to  tell  about  it.  It  was  raining,  and 
freezing  where  it  dropped,  and  except  for  the  red  of  the 
blaze  it  was  so  dark  that  a  white  cat  looked  black. 
Among  the  three  hundred  of  us  that  fought  the  fire  back 


352  JIM  HANDS 

from  the  factory  it  would  surprise  you  how  many  got 
jambed  hands  and  burnt  ears  and  cuts  on  the  head. 
See  that  middle  finger?  That  was  that  night.  But 
we  were  fighting  for  the  factory,  and  I  guess  every  man 
felt  it  was  his  factory ;  and  my  Annie  and  Katherine  and 
the  Boss's  daughter  and  a  lot  of  the  women-folks  come 
down  with  cans  and  bottles  of  hot  coffee.  The  women 
who  stayed  at  home,  I  guess,  were  praying  when  the 
blaze  gave  one  of  them  devilish  leaps  and  roars,  but  the 
men  would  yell  back  at  it  and  fight  it  again  right  up  to 
the  place  where  a  feller  could  smell  his  own  hair  singe 
ing! 

It  was  three  o'clock  before  we  had  saved  the  main 
building,  and  I  crawled  home  up  over  the  hill,  and  my 
Annie  met  me  at  the  door  with  a  lamp  and  put  her  arms 
around  my  neck  and  says,  "My  boy,  my  boy,"  like  she 
hadn't  said  since  a  long  time  before  we  got  gray  hairs, 
and  little  Michael  came  in  and  tried  to  climb  up  my  leg, 
and  Katherine  came  and  knocked  off  a  little  red  cinder 
that  was  still  eating  its  way  into  my  coat. 

"By  the  way,  Katherine,"  I  says,  hardly  able  to  speak, 
I  was  so  hoarse,  "he  is  back." 

"Here  in  town?"  she  cries  out. 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "he  was  the  feller  you  saw  on  the 
roof  —  the  feller  that  went  up  and  opened  the  valve 
on  the  second  water-tank,"  I  says.  "Everybody  was 
asking.  It  was  young  Harvey,"  I  says. 

She  turned  a  bit  white.     "Is  he  safe?"  she  says. 


JIM  HANDS  353 

"I  come  from  very  simple  people,"  says  I,  mocking 
her,  "but  I  couldn't  see  anything  the  matter  with  him," 
I  says,  laughing.  And  yet  my  head  was  swimming 
with  being  tired  out. 

And  that  night  two  clean  sheets  was  the  best  thing  I 
ever  felt. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

I  SUPPOSE  when  the  boys  are  away  at  school  and 
Katherine  isn't  with  us,  and  evening  has  come  and  I 
have  read  my  paper  and  the  wife's  eyes  is  smarting  from 
too  much  sewing,  and  maybe  the  wind  of  night  is  singing 
outside,  that  my  Annie  and  I  will  never  get  tired  of 
speaking  of  that  next  day. 

I  well  remember  of  how  black  and  charred  the  factory 
looked  from  the  front  window  against  the  white  of  that 
night's  snowfall  on  the  hills.  Then  I  went  back  to  bed, 
and  they  didn't  wake  me  at  all  at  the  ordinary  time,  and 
I  slept  until  eleven  o'clock,  and  when  I  got  up  it  seemed 
as  if  I'd  never  seen  so  much  sunlight  before.  It  was 
melting  the  snow  away,  and  birds  was  picking  in  the  bare 
places  on  the  road,  and  there  was  a  warm  and  pleasant 
smell  inside  the  house. 

When  I  went  downstairs  I  found  that  little  Michael, 
and  John  with  his  books  and  slate,  had  come  home  from 
school,  and  Katherine  had  put  on  a  new  dress  she'd 
been  making,  and  Annie  was  keeping  an  eye  on  some 
thing  on  the  kitchen  stove. 

I  felt  like  a  king  of  some  big  place,  though  every  muscle 
in  my  body  was  sore.  "Come  here,"  I  says,  "every 
one  of  you,"  I  says.  "Sit  here  at  the  table,"  I  says, 

354 


JIM  HANDS  355 

"and  see  your  husband  and  old  man  eat  his  breakfast 
at  noon,"  I  says.  "Because  this  is  a  sight  you  may 
never  have  the  chance  to  see  again/'  I  says. 

"You're  leading  the  life  of  an  Italian  duke,"  says  my 
Annie,  with  a  laugh. 

"  It  pains  me  to  hear  you  say  so,"  I  says,  "with  a  dish 
of  oatmeal  as  dry  as  this  before  me,"  I  says,  "and  the 
coal-bill  not  paid,"  says  I.  "You'd  better  let  me  enter 
as  an  American,"  I  says. 

"With  a  dash  of  Irish,"  says  Katherine,  filling  my  pipe 
for  me. 

But  the  breakfast  was  never  finished.  There  came  a 
knock  on  the  door.  "It's  two  men,"  says  Michael, 
running  back  to  tell  us.  And  when  Annie  opened  the 
door  there  was  the  Old  Boss  and  his  boy. 

"We  didn't  ask  to  see  the  whole  family,"  says  the  old 
man,  patting  little  John  on  the  cheek.  "We  told  you 
we  were  calling  on  Miss  Hands,"  he  says,  "on  a  matter 
of  business,"  says  he. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  said  more,  but  Katherine 
came  into  the  room  and  looked  around.  "Bob!"  she 
says,  "Bob!" 

But  the  young  feller  only  straightened  up  his  big 
frame  and  bit  his  lip  and  made  a  move  with  his  hand 
toward  his  father.  Katherine  looked  at  him  a  minute, 
and  he  looked  at  the  floor  very  indifferent,  and  I  seen  the 
tears  come  into  her  eyes. 

"We  have  a  matter  to  settle  with  you,  Miss  Hands," 


356  JIM  HANDS 

says  the  Old  Boss.  "  Perhaps  it  is  better  for  me  to  speak 
of  this  than  my  son,"  he  says.  "I'll  try  to  be  brief," 
he  says. 

I  seen  the  scared  look  on  Annie's  face,  and  I  felt  then 
as  if  another  trouble,  the  biggest  of  all,  was  coming  to  us. 

"Run  along,  John,  and  take  your  brother  out  to  play," 
I  says.  "And  now  let  us  sit  down,"  says  I. 

To  this  day  I  can  see  Katherine  on  that  sofa.  What  a 
figure  she  had !  And  there  she  sat  alone  by  herself  with 
her  arms  by  her  side,  and  her  dress  moving  with  the 
length  of  breaths  she  was  taking. 

"Katherine,"  says  the  Old  Boss,  "perhaps  I  could  tell 
you  this  better  if  we  were  alone.  I  used  to  think  it  was 
an  advantage  years  ago  not  to  have  anybody  around  on 
an  occasion  like  this,"  he  says,  and  then  he  stopped  and 
looked  around  at  the  boy.  "It's  no  use,  Bob,"  he  said, 
"I'm  no  good  at  this,"  he  says,  and  looked  sheepish. 

But  just  the  same  he  moved  his  chair  around  where 
he  could  face  her. 

"Katherine,"  he  says  again,  "you  once  told  me  that 
when  my  boy  wanted  you,  I  was  to  come  and  ask  for 
you,"  he  says.  "Well,"  he  says,  "here  I  am.  Don't 
speak!"  he  says.  "Wait." 

With  that  he  looked  at  her  a  moment  and  his  face  got 
serious  and  he  ran  his  fingers  through  his  gray  hair  till  it 
was  all  in  a  tangle. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  says  again.  "I've  come  to  ask  you 
to  love  my  son  a  little.  He  doesn't  want  any  other 


JIM  HANDS  357 

woman.  He  wants  you.  Probably  he  always  will,"  he 
says.  "If  I  was  in  his  place  I  would  be  almost  afraid  to 
ask  for  you,"  he  says,  "  for  as  much  as  I  respect  him,  I'm 
not  sure  he  has  enough  to  give  you,"  he  says.  "Of 
course  with  me  it's  a  little  different,"  he  says.  "I  will 
tell  you  straight  that  I  wish  I  could  make  you  love  me 
a  little  the  way  you  must  love  your  own  father.  I'm 
willing  to  try.  I'll  do  what  I  can.  But  you  have  said 
that  I  must  speak  for  him,  too,"  he  says.  "So  here  I 
am,"  he  says,  and  looked  at  the  floor.  "My  boy  wants 
you  to  be  his  wife,"  he  says,  so  low  you  could  hardly 
hear  him.  "He  wants  you  to  be  the  mother  of  his 
children." 

Katherine  shut  her  eyes.  I  seen  her.  I  seen  them 
long  lashes.  And  then  she  opened  them  again  and  stood 
up  and  looked  at  the  old  man  and  then  at  Bob,  who  was 
holding  on  to  the  chair  arms  so  hard  they  cracked. 
Her  voice  was  clear,  too  —  clear  and  strong. 

"I  will  be  his  wife,"  she  says. 

"Katherine !"  says  the  boy,  and  jumped  up. 

"There !"  says  the  Old  Boss  over  his  shoulder  to  his 
son.  "You  see  all  your  worry  was  for  nothing."  And 
he  turned  back  to  her  then.  "Will  you  let  the  old 
man  kiss  you?"  he  says. 

"Why,  yes,"  says  my  girl,  with  the  color  coming  up  to 
the  surface  of  her  skin.  "Only  nobody  has  ever  asked 
me  before,"  she  says,  like  a  little  girl,  "and  I'd  rather 
Bob  would  have  the  first,"  she  says. 


358  JIM  HANDS 

I  looked  up  then  at  my  Annie.  And  our  eyes  met. 
And  I  knew  then  that  she  and  I  both  saw  as  clear  as  day 
everything  that  was  to  be.  I  think  we  even  saw  the 
youngster  that  came  to  be  our  grandson,  just  as  if  he  was 
already  living.  And  though  the  world  will  never  hear 
of  us,  I  guess  we  knew  that  she  and  I  had  seen  and  felt 
and  loved  about  all  there  was  to  see  and  feel  and  love 
in  life. 


follow 
ing  pages 
contain  adver 
tisements  of  a 
few  of  the 
M  a  c  m  i  1 1  a  n 
novels. 


MR.  WINSTON  CHURCHILL'S  NOVELS 


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A  Modern  Chronicle  Illustrated 

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It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 

"The  most  thorough  and  artistic  work  the  author  has  yet  turned  out.  A 
very  interesting  story  and  a  faithful  picture  of  character  .  .  .  one  that 
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Mr.  Crewel  Career  Illustrated 

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The  Celebrity    An  Episode 

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The  Crossing  Illustrated 

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Together 

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The  Gospel  of  Freedom 

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The  Web  of  Life 

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Jock  o*  Dreams;  or,  The  Real  World 

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to  the  verities  in  doing  so,  the  strange  dreamlike  quality  of  life  to  the 
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The  Memoirs  of  an  American  Citizen 

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The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife  Illustrated 

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At  the  Sign  of  the  Fox 

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and  there  is  fun  as  genuine  in  her  notes  on  rural  character."  —  New  York 
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The  Garden,  You  and  I 

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torturing  to  the  reviewer,  whose  only  garden  is  in  Spain.  .  .  .  The  delightful 
humor  which  pervaded  the  earlier  books,  and  without  which  Barbara  would 
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The   Open   Window*      Tales  of  the  Months. 

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Poppea  of  the  Post-Office 

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genial  entirety  refreshes  like  a  cooling  shower."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

Princess  Flower  Hat  just  Ready 

A  Comedy  from  the  Perplexity  Book  of  Barbara  the  Commuter's  Wife. 


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